HV-S01: Red Knight Redemption
by ekaterina016
Summary: A sin of blood must be paid in blood. A mistake by the sword must be remedied by the sword. A broken child, cast aside. For her father who has forsaken her, for her mother who has cursed her into doom, for the people who loathed her, she'll prove them wrong. By her comrades' assistance, she'll walk a path no one can bear: a path of redemption.
1. A New Dawn

**Hey, guys! It's been a while!**

 **Now, this is the new project I said I'm working on. A few chapters are already down the line, and the concept is nearly finished, so I want to know what you think regarding this new story. I am heavily inspired by Arrixam's works, so here's a shout-out to him! For those of you who don't know, his, and in effect, my stories will be about a multi-fandom fanfictions, conjoined together with a single idea and goal, performed by a variety of main characters from each respective fandom. Of course, I don't want to be just a copycat or plagiarize his work, and so you'll find my writing style and storyline to differ from his quite a lot. I haven't really asked for permission from him (sorry, Arrixam!) to partly-use this concept, but I can honestly say this idea has been in the works long before I read any of his works. When I did, I went, "Oh, wow! This guy's exactly what I wanted to be!" So props for him.**

 **Okay, to the main story.**

 **You may find some concepts being under-explained for your liking. Don't worry, and don't spam, because I plan on letting you know on the concepts I use gently, over several chapters, more in line of commercial novels. I do have an encyclopedia on the way, to be posted either on my Bio or a separate story altogether, but I will only do so several days after I introduced or explained the concepts in-universe. Also, I need to remind you, this is FANFICTION. I always like to stick to the theories and explanation from canon, but if it's necessary, I'll bend it to fit the story better. Some criticisms will be inevitable, but I accept all constructive comments and will try to implement any necessary corrections pointed out.**

 **Fuuuu... as that's out of the way, let's continue with the disclaimer, shall we?**

 **DISCLAIMER: Nasuverse belongs to those rich guys who produces great novels and animes, so of course they won't be loitering around in this pokey site, no?**

 **Enjoy, and review!**

* * *

The air is eerily quiet.

At this time of the year, the forest will be filled to the brim with noises and smells, all chirping and screaming between the animals. Sometimes, one may meet several hunters, going about their trade spread out in the forest area. This place isn't a popular logging place, in part because the trees here isn't really suitable for furniture, and because of the stories of an evil witch that will kidnap any living humans wandering around for a period of time. As such, only experienced hunters and gatherers dare walk through the perimeter, and even they never venture anywhere deep.

Of course, for a magus, it's a different story altogether.

Even to the city-dwellers, who have witnessed their fair share of weirdness, the magus's appearance will still garner quite a considerable amount of confused looks. Anyone seeing him in this part of the country, strolling while whistling inside a dangerous forest all alone, will probably label him as suicidal. After all, with clothes made from the finest material, pure white and looking so delicate and fluffy, the wearer must be a madman, right?

They aren't exactly wrong.

For example, if they have the opportunity to ask the people close to the magus, they will only affirm their suspicion: that this man is an immature, idiotic, pathetic excuse of an adult, only living for his own entertainment and pleasures. Oh, and they may add, for love.

However, the conditions of the forest is clearly as abnormal as he is. It's devoid of life, not just in the form of humans and animals, but even the plants, rocks, water, air... all of them feels 'dead', or 'devoid of life'.

As the 'Magus of Flowers', Merlin is angry.

It's not an emotion he often feels, much less shows to others, but he is livid. He has witnessed wars and conflicts which laid waste to the environment, but for the exception of 'scorched earth' tactics, the damages is reversible. If he uses his Magecraft, even the salted land and burnt fields can be resuscitated.

But this... this _abomination_...

Merlin is familiar with the cause of these dead patches of land.

The woman he once loved, or still loves, or will love in the future... Morgan le Fay.

He's confused at himself for still harboring feelings this strong for her. Alas, he has sworn to live by love, chasing love, and be surrounded by love, so it's an aspect of him he really can't help manifesting. The choice may raise some protests, but his feelings, despite his emotions right now, remains unchanged.

To love someone is to accept them for what they are, and if they're wrong, to right them into the correct path. Merlin is a firm believer of this mindset, and therefore has concrete plans to use against that witch.

He'll kill her, in order to save her.

' _But,'_ he muses, _'it's strange.'_

One of the most important rules as a magus is to keep his or her craft to a minimum of exposure. There are several reasons for this. One, no self-respecting magus will allow anyone, especially another magus, to have a glimpse of the craft they've been perfecting all their lives. Two, unwanted attention will undoubtedly create setbacks in one's research, for example, bringing an entire knight squadron into your doorstep because of one's misdoings. Three, since the times of Solomon, the power of Magecraft is finite, and therefore magi are educated not to share any knowledge of Magecraft around, for fear of weakening its power.

For Merlin and Morgan, all three of the reasons above are quite weak. Both of them have the strength to resist any attempts at their lives or research, and both are not as morally inclined as most people think. Their acceptance of the above creed is due to habit, not necessity.

And so, it's very strange to see her power being displayed so openly and indifferently. It's harder to break one's habits than one's responsibilities, and all of their previous bouts happened under strict 'no-witness' and 'no-evidence' rule. Sadly, he couldn't bring himself to finish her off whenever he had the upper hand, and he managed to shrewdly escape whenever the situation turned itself around, making this a prolonged campaign.

Still humming a song to himself, he finally steps into the depths of the forest. Here, the wasteland becomes more desolate, with withered trees and scorched earth everywhere, some even revealing the bedrocks underneath. The sound of a stream is distant and clogged, carrying only filth and sludge, not life. The normally vibrant forest now emits no natural scents and sounds, only emptiness.

However, one thing catches his eyes, enough for him to temporarily shelf his raging heart and investigate.

What he founds is astonishing.

' _This is...!'_

* * *

Dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

It's dying.

How?

...no, looking back, the answer is obvious.

Humanity have died.

Was it in the wrong?

All it ever did was for the ensured continuation of humanity. It nipped every disaster before it bloomed. It killed all causes of mass destruction, whether it was human or not. It went against the Will of the Planet, a true Type, and triumphed.

So why?

Is the Counter Guardian Program wrong? Is the Throne of Heroes not working?

Or is it in the wrong?

...

...

...

Error.

Error. Error. Error.

Error. Error. Error. Error. Error.

Analyzing cause... Error.

Repeating... Error. Error.

Restarting... Command not accepted. Error.

WARNING! System under power. Attempting fail-safe...

Error. Error. Error.

Humanity saturation level: 0.00000001%

Activating Counter Guardian program. Attempt failed.

Humanity saturation level: undetectable.

WARNING! System shutting down. Attempting fail-safe...

Error. Error. Error. Error. Error.

Rebooting...

Rebooting...

Rebooting...

Power level critical. WARNING! Shutting down.

SYSTEM SHUT DOWN.

...

...

...

Back-up system initiated.

Systems check... Systems check... Successful.

Re-routing to back-up logs.

Emergency system activate?

Calculating... Calculating... Calculating...

Commence the Heroic Vessel program? Affirmative.

PROGRAM 'HEROIC VESSEL' STARTED. Selecting candidates...

Searching timelines... Searching backlogs... Start PROPHET calculation...

Searching... Searching... Searching...

Searching... Searching... Searching...

Searching... Searching... Searching...

Success. Calculating compatibility...

Calculation finished. Compatibility: 330%

Awaiting confirmation...

Waiting...

Waiting...

* * *

A king's chamber is a lonely one.

Generally, the above statement is true across many kingdoms, and it is no exception in Camelot.

Across the massive stone hall, there are a number of guards standing by, ready to protect the King whenever the need arises, futile as it is. They know and believe in their heart that the King sitting on the throne is Briton's greatest king, and any attacks sufficient enough to threaten the gallant and immortal King will go through them like cannonballs through parchment. It is simply a sign of loyalty and respect, as they all stand proud and tall surrounding the various nobles and commoners reporting their cases.

The King, as always, is paying attention to all their requests.

It can be said as an inhuman tasks, for keeping one's concentration for so long and with different subjects, plus the needed change of perspective between reporters, is a steep mountain to conquer. Even the guards themselves take a shift with another team, but the King does not.

It only makes them respect him even more.

The procession wears on for another tens of minutes without a hitch.

Suddenly, the door to the main chamber opens. It's a slow behemoth, due to its weight, but since all the people arguing their case in front of the King's court are ushered through a separate, more easily opened door, the act itself must mean something important has taken place. Indeed, judging by the breathlessness of the royal messenger kneeling in front of the King, it must be very urgent indeed.

If not, well... Is His Highness's pet lion on a starvation period? No, that big cat will just spit the sweaty, lanky human right back out.

The young male thrusts a scroll out from his pockets, presenting it with both arms. One of the aides steps forward, taking it to the King.

All the people present hold their breath, as they try to gleam the contents of the scroll from the King's expression.

' _It's bad!'_

In concert, their minds shout inside their head. The aides have even taken a step back from the King's stern expression, one which they rarely see. They've witnessed the king taking news of death and mass destruction without a single eyebrow twitching, so the news has to be such an enormous disaster for him to react as such.

"Court dismissed," a flat, high-pitched voice says.

Usually, it's the court adviser's line to say, but the one who said it this time is His Majesty Arthur Pendragon. His voice may be mistaken for a young girl, combined with his youthful looks, but to them, it is a result of achieving immortality in a tender age, causing his voice to never break into a manly, baritone voice common in the kingdom. It gives him an ethereal presence in front of the masses, captivating them with the contrast of innocence with mature charisma.

Silently, the people march outside in an orderly manner. None dare emit a protest, for fear of the King's wrath.

With a wave of his arms, Arthur signals for the guards and aides to remove themselves from the chamber as well. Again, the order is taken in stride, even though their duties is actually to stay inside the court, no matter what happens. Some of the particularly studious ones may challenge the order, claiming the King has no right to undo a grand task he gave them himself, but even they relent this time.

They all think the King needs a serene and quiet environment to think about anything that scroll contains and how to react to it. It's a refreshing change to the King's work ethos they're used to: dogged determination and professionalism, always delivering no matter the situation. Now that they're effectively on break, some of them has begun to chat about what lunch they're going to have, conditions of their families, the ongoing joke bets between them, and so on.

Oh, how they're wrong.

Inside the now empty chamber, the sound of a crunched parchment rings across the walls, before followed by a shrill, feral roar.

"MEERRRRRLLLLLLIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNN!"

* * *

The time is three years since King Arthur, or Altria, received the scroll from Merlin.

However, for this existence, three years are naught but seconds. Time blurs past when one is an immortal, especially if the two worlds are separated by an impregnable chasm called 'logic'.

At the time of the Age of Gods, the world was ruled by these supernatural beings that transcended humanity. Nay, it is humanity itself who had so little value compared to these beings, it is comparable to livestock and pests. For millennia, the gods ruled as they wish, and with eternity to spend, they ruled with one golden rule.

" _There will be no boredom,"_ many of them declared.

As such, their entertainment subject turned towards humanity. They toyed and played with their lives, because humanity was such a fragile and unstable existence, to produce the greatest dramas and climaxes for their own enjoyment. They granted powers to the people they dubbed 'heroes', then created unfortunate 'incidents' in order to control their lives. They killed families, friends, lovers, and pitted one against the other.

It was a chaotic time.

Then, during the Age of Heroes, humanity had enough.

It was in this age those called 'god-slayers' were born. Fed up with the gods' treatment, they rebelled against their masters, and vanquished them with the very powers and weapons bequeathed to them by those arrogant gods. The heroes struck the moment the people's faith in the gods weakened, momentarily stopping the flow of power to the gods, and bathed their bodies with divine blood.

After the complete dismantling of the system, the Age of Humans arrived.

With the destruction of the pantheons of gods and goddesses, all aspects and records of the previous religious sacraments disappeared and malfunctioned. The old faith was replaced by newer ones, and steadily, the 'Old World' was being eroded away. The residents of said world became alienated and labeled as 'fantasy', creating a separation between the world, now occupied by humans, to them.

Dragons, faeries, ogres, demi-humans, vampires, and others noticed the phenomena happening, and thus banded together to separate them from the encroaching humans. They used the humans' perception of 'logic', as it was a form of 'faith', as fuel to create a separate dimension where they all could live in peace, for eternity, without having their powers siphoned off and dying.

The 'Inside of the World' was born.

However, using the 'faith' called 'logic' in itself was flawed. No matter how hard a human being tried to suppress and eradicate those 'fantasies' he or she knew and heard of, but a human mind cannot fully contain the 'wish' that was the backbone of those 'fantasies'. In essence, through their dreams and desires, there still existed the 'faith' of 'fantasy' which overrode those of 'logic'.

Therefore, there still existed pathways that connected both sides of the world, the 'Inside' and the 'Outside'.

Much less traveling through them, no normal human being could even survive finding them, though.

This was partly due to the designs of the supernatural beings residing there. Noticing this uncorrectable flaw in their craft, they simply carved multitudes of non-lethal and lethal Bounded Fields and curses around the entrances of a much stronger version than a human could make. This, in effect, filtered any sudden 'visitors', and allowed them to gauge the worthiness of the person traveling through. Due to their desire to alleviate boredom, this opening was never closed, instead granting passage to those who qualify as 'heroes', or in their minds, 'people that can entertain us more'.

Then, following that train of thought, of course Pæga is happy.

The 'visitor' in front of it was a female human of a small stature. Bright golden hair tied in a ponytail, fiery green eyes, and an excited grin pasted across her lovely face. Her figure is slim, cloaked in a red... whatever those humans called the pieces of material covering her body, and a huge, gallant sword more than half her size strapped to her back.

No, not a human. This person is artificial.

' _Homunculus,'_ it surmises.

However, there are some things that piqued its curiosity about her.

Even with the technology from the Age of Gods, homunculi are mainly created as servants or foot soldiers for their masters. As such, their development curve is steep and fast, resulting in great power and reduced lifespan. A Phantasmal Being like it can easily point out flaws in anything, even living beings, and as predicted, most homunculi have very strong physical and magical capabilities, manifested in their robust flesh and high-quality Magic Circuits.

Despite that, their own strength has a detrimental effect on their health and lives. During their short lives, their organs and other bodily functions will slowly deteriorate and fail, at a rate visible through its own eyes. In a few years, these flaws will end up in their deaths, and as such they're never highly regarded by their masters.

However, the homunculus in front of it is... _perfect_.

No, calling it 'perfect' is perhaps inaccurate. The 'perfection' Pæga thinks of is in the line of 'she's perfectly the same as a human being', instead of 'she's a perfect human being and homunculus'. In any case, her creator is powerful and intelligent enough to uncover the greatest secret in the Age of Gods: the art to breathe living souls into a body. To be precise, it is a craft of 'giving life', not just creating a fake one that can only function finitely.

Intrigued, Pæga calls, **"Girl."**

"Owa! So this is a dragon!"

After her excited declaration, she begins to run closer to it, and pokes its body a few times, as if confirming its existence. Then, she gallops around, taking in all the scenery around her and its nest like an overeager child. Its ears catch her 'ooh's and 'aah's while she's running around.

Well, the 'Inside' is much different than the 'Outside'. Besides, living this long, patience is one of the things it has mastered.

After a few more minutes of loitering around, the girl finally walks back in front of him.

Pæga sees it. The fire burning in her eyes, hidden under a thin layer of brilliant innocence and wilderness. It's one familiar to it, having witnessed many heroes during the previous era coming to being like it.

The serene ones. The malicious ones. The just ones. The cunning ones. It has seen it all. Therefore, her eyes smoldering with desire of power is nothing new to it.

Usually, the most interesting ones have a good _motive_ behind it. The story, the pain, the happiness, the history, the dream, all having a factor in moulding these would-be heroes to become what they are now. For example, Pæga birthed its descendants with a human woman, as she came to it to wish for power. Back then, the 'Outside' were in discord, especially around the gates directly connecting the 'Outside' to its part of 'Inside'. It can still remember the scent of her flaming red hair as they laid down together, the new sensations conquering its dormant senses as Pæga shifted into a human form.

This homunculus's emerald orbs contain a similar flame to that person. To protect. To save. To rule, and to safekeep. To fight, and to repel. That flame tells it many things about her.

No, there are more than her eyes that's similar...

This homunculus carries its blood.

Unintentionally, it grins.

" **Why are you here?"** A booming voice echoes around its domain, coming from its mouth.

Its grin is replied by another.

"You know why I'm here," a clear, bell-like voice rings in opposition, "Gramps."

Her eyes harden. "i wish to be king."

" **Careful what you wish for, fledgling..."** Taking a heavy step forward with its claws, its body began to shift.

The giant majestic presence shrinks smoothly, however, its strength only grows denser. Its... no, _his_ shape becomes humanoid, turning into a human male. However, his proportions are still larger than the biggest humans, about the size of a half-giant around three meters tall. Scaly wings still attach themselves to his back, with a meaty tail stretching behind him as he strides forward. Apart from that, the only major difference his body has from a normal human is his flaming golden hair.

No, it's literally _flaming_ , as in golden fire.

" **Surely, you've heard the sayings among yourselves,"** he begins, **"absolute power corrupts absolutely."**

To that expression, the homunculus laughs. Her lovely expression turns angelic, however, what amuses him the most is her honesty. She laughed not out of conceit of arrogance, but only because something in his words she found particularly funny. It's quiet a refreshing emotion, for once.

"I don't want power."

She steps closer to him, close enough to make her have to crane her neck to look him in the eyes.

"I've seen it," her eyes turn wistful, "the Kingdom with a powerful me."

Her hands tremble in rage, remembering a horrifying vision.

"I want to be a worthy king for them."

She draws her sword, pointless as it is, and declares.

"Even more than _him_."

" **Then why are you here? Why are you not with that... Vessel?"**

Her expression turns sheepish.

"Ah... um, why is it again? Ha-ha-ha..." She chuckles awkwardly. "You're... not going to send me back, r-right? After all this way..."

He guffaws.

" **HAHAHAHA! Truly, truly your beings never cease to amuse me!"** He kneels down, and uses his oversized palm to ruffle her hair, despite her protests. **"HA... HA... HA... I understand, child of Pendragon.** _ **My**_ **child, I shall grant your wish..."**

He lifts her chin up with his finger, silently laughing at her messed up hair. **"If you are willing to do whatever it takes."**

Her grin returns.

"Give me your best shot."

As always, regret comes far too late.

* * *

"Mmm..."

"Oh? Here?"

"Yes... more..."

"As you wish, my lady."

"Ah...! S-Stop calling me tha- oh!"

Inside one of the many chambers in Camelot, such sounds are reverberating across the room. Clearly, both of these lovers have made sure there will be no outside interference from anyone, so they choose the moment when almost everyone is away. The chambermaids can be silenced as necessary, but if someone more important catch them in the act, it will be far too difficult to conceal the evidence.

As a knight, Lancelot du Lac's senses are still spread sharp and wide, always in full alert even during this heated moments. His lover will get angry if she catch him doing this, claiming that he should pay more attention to her, so he learns to do it discreetly. He only does this because he knows the nature of the people living in the castle: knights who're borderline superhuman, a sneaky magus, and the intelligent king. There's no such thing as being too careful.

That said, it's not as if the sensations he's feeling right now is no distraction in itself. Besides being a breathtakingly beautiful woman, having sexual intercourse with Queen Guinevere herself carries with it a sense of immorality and disloyalty, which, shamefully, only serves to heighten his pleasure. This disturbing part of his personality is usually kept down during other times, but it's let loose only when they're alone. He's aware of this... bad habit, but instead of working to erase it, he feels a guilty pleasure in indulging it.

More and more, both their moans get louder and louder as their movements become more frantic, moving in concert with each other's body to achieve more and more bodily pleasure. Sharp, wet sounds accompany their dance, entwining their minds together in a mad rush. A musky scent spreads around the room, which, in hindsight, is very difficult to remove, but this issue occupies the last spot in their minds.

A few moments later, muffled groans echo as they both reach their respective climaxes.

"Mmm... wait..."

A slender pair of hands circle around Lancelot's well-built torso, chaining him momentarily in place. Guinevere exerts more strength into her arms, toppling her lover under her on the bed. However, Lancelot softly smiles and kisses her forehead, before removing himself from her embrace.

"I have to report soon, Gwen," calling her by her nickname, he dresses up and moves towards the door. "I'll make it up later, sorry."

She smiles at him in understanding. However, the moment the door closes, her cheerfulness disappeared like smoke. She throws herself back into the bed, savoring the remaining scent of her lover before it disappeared. A few dark emotions rise inside her heart, but the impact is minimal as she shut them out.

Many will say her actions are foolish. All the women inside the kingdom will do very unspeakable things just to be in her position, and all men will do the same to be in Lancelot's. They, however, do not know anything regarding the intrapersonal relationships and its problems inside the castle.

It's not as if her life is miserable. Far from it, in fact. As of why she betrays her king, it isn't because she harbors dark plans for Altria.

At the beginning, things are perfect.

Oh, how naive she was back then.

A decade ago, she and Altria were very young. They met when Altria was still a knight-in-training alongside Sir Kay, and the three of them spent their childhood together. The image was still vivid in her mind even until this day; the sharp-tongued and stubborn Kay, the quiet Altria, and the tag-along girl in herself was a strange trio in hindsight. However, those days were spent in relative peace and happiness, a memory she would cherish inside her heart.

And then... Altria pulled out that cursed sword.

She never understood her King's decision. Merlin had repeatedly warned her pulling that sword was tantamount to becoming a monster, as the price required was to abandon her humanity in order to be the 'perfect' king. It's a burden no human could possibly fathom, much less shoulder, but shouldered Altria did. It took a few years until Guinevere learned the whole truth.

The truth terrified her.

This whole kingdom... no, this _farce_ of a kingdom was based and created on a simple, freaking _prophecy_. Oh, make no mistake, she held Merlin in high respect, but that very prophecy was what chained her best friend down, cursing her with the responsibility of a king on her immature self. Knowing all this, the Queen was livid.

She was there when Altria became king. She was there when her King achieved her first victory. She was there when her friend tasted defeat and despair. She was there when His Highness was hurt, not just her body, but her spirit.

Guinever was there when she _broke_ , and she could do nothing about it.

However, Altria never complained, not in front of anyone else. Even in their private times, she merely smiled wearily and let herself be spoiled a bit by her Queen. The feeling of holding those slender arms, not much bigger than her own, drove daggers inside her own heart, as if it was gouged out. She hated it. She hated the crown, the throne, the Sword in the Stone.

She hated the world.

During the next few years, Altria and everyone close to her drifted away, all pursuing the King's image of an ideal kingdom. She was also one of them, however, the loneliness of being the perfect queen, combined with the weight of her responsibilities, made her facade crack.

Unknowingly to her, it was herself who broke, when everyone else had already healed their wounds from her nurturing and moved on.

Oh, how ironic life was.

At that moment, Lancelot became a part of her life. She had no longer remembered who exactly it was that made the first move, whether she was seducing him or he forced himself to her, but the result of their relationship was the moment just now.

Insecure. Fleeting. Afraid. Bittersweet.

However, it was satisfying nonetheless, at least during their moments together.

It was like a self-destructing drug, their love was. Both of them knew it was unhealthy and dangerous, yet they still chose to partake and indulge in them. Both of them knew the sensation would only last a few moments before the harsh reality came down on them like a cold waterfall. Both of them knew it would only end badly, lethal or not.

Their minds understood, but their bodies and hearts didn't.

After a few more minutes, she decides to go clean herself. The court needs some refreshing elements, she's told, and females are very much on top of the list. It won't do to keep them waiting, if only for appearances' sake.

She wishes that life will continue on like this.

' _But these kinds of wishes are impossible...'_

* * *

" _AAAHHHHHH! Hel-"_

" _No, no, no, no! Please, someo-"_

" _My son! My son! Where are you! I'm-"_

 _Flames are everywhere._

 _Under his heel. Licking his back. Torching his front. Looming over his head. Flames are everywhere._

 _No, don't look at the flames._

 _That's it. One step at a time... one step..._

...

My eyes snap open.

With practiced ease, I do my morning preparations, unnerved by the nightmare I just experienced. Whether this is due to me being used to it, hardening my mind, or I myself has transcended human emotions... I don't know.

Gazing around the simple camp I erected, my eyes swallow the information surrounding me. The multi-colored, ethereal world in my eyes melds seamlessly with the real one, allowing me access to its inner workings. After a quick sweep, my diamond-white eyes turn back into its original brown.

It's still several minutes before daybreak, perhaps a good hour before my usual waking time. However, I still makes my rounds, boiling water and washing my face, before cooking my own breakfast in the wild. A moment of laziness will be all it take to bring me to my ruin, so I continue on diligently.

I take a few seasonings from a small bag, then generously applies them to the boiling vegetables inside the pot to make a soup.

I begin my contemplation during the meal.

Normally, people who wake up early tend to dismiss the occasion as a one-off, and either do their morning preparations or doze off again. However, for a being like me, a divergence from my daily routine, ingrained through countless years of life, always means something else. It's maybe just a small case, or perhaps a catastrophically massive disaster, but this events always are a prelude, or a premonition, to an impending change in the life around me.

At this moment, it can only mean one thing.

' _The pieces are all in place.'_

At long last.,,

It's such a shame my student isn't here to hear my plans...

Well, she's always good at improvisation, so no worries.

Right?


	2. Behind Enemy Lines

**Well, here's the long-awaited second chapter! Many of you guys have plenty of questions regarding the plot and such, so I hope this new chapter can shed some light into your curiosity. I won't explain everything in one go, as I mentioned in the first chapter, so expect more to come down the line. By the way, look for the new entry for the Glossary I have in the end of the story.**

 **I've decided to upload a separate chapter for the Glossary when I'm a few chapters in, just to keep it organized. Stats and NP records will be there as well, so try to check it out every once in a while. Any new updates will be posted on the story first, then updated in the Glossary a few days later.**

 **Disclaimer: Really? The first chapter isn't enough?**

* * *

The surroundings are quiet.

It's incredibly dark, mainly because the bright moonlight is blocked by the thick canopy above my head, leaving only a few small silver streams of white, ethereal light through. The surreal scene creates a fascinating contrast between the illuminated area and the surrounding shadows, playing the minds of any normal men. The thick scent of decomposing and fresh leaves covers the area, mixed with the excretions of the local wildlife, and the sounds of nocturnal creatures creates an otherworldly cacophony.

I use the word 'otherworldly' perhaps too figuratively, as the place I'm now fits closely to the literal description.

It has been over several minutes since I cross the border between the Inside and Outside of the World. It's not an instant portal or door, but there's a transition area between them, a place where monstrous beings and non-humans thrive and rule. Most of the creatures imagined by humans who look quite humanoid are born here from their imaginations, and indirectly, their prayers and curses.

It's fortunate all of them possess far superior insight to mortals, since all of them steps out of my way without any obstructions. Granted, my fully-unsealed strength and theirs is incomparable due to the massive difference, but even in my current state I should be able to vanquish most of them with some effort.

My steps are both careful and swift, achieved from year-long honed technique from my homeland, called 'Kokyū Hohō', or the 'way of walking and breathing'. To a naturally gifted person, it's simply a most optimum and natural way for moving about, able to create natural interference just by existing. In this state, the inner and outer world of a person is connected, granting him or her authority over the World similar to those Phantasmal Species, albeit in lesser form.

I'm not as gifted as them, but through constant practice, I'm able to achieve this state. I analyzed how each and every single muscle and nerve are working, and by systematically eliminating any inconsistencies and wasted energy, along with careful control of my magic energy, my body is able to move in the same level as them. To be fair, it's not really necessary in my unsealed state, but it helps tremendously with my efficiency in any state; therefore, I learned it studiously for many years.

These creatures here recognized that, the fact I'm living in the same way as them, perhaps projecting a sense of camaraderie. I care for them as much as they do for me, and there's no point needlessly antagonizing anyone, even if their personality is bad. So, we stay out of each other's way, and I'm able to reach my destination quickly.

The dense foliage spreads into sparse grassland, with only a few large trees every so often covering the landscape. The grassland surrounds a breathtakingly beautiful lake, its emerald-blue colors glittering impossibly bright under the uninterrupted moonlight. Its surface is calm as a mirror, giving an impression of a still pond, not a lake, but I know better than to assume any normalcy in this area.

The scent of power assaults my nose.

Everyone who can sense magic energy detects it in different way. My eyes and nose are especially sensitive to them, and so any shift in magic energy manifests itself as a visual and olfactory change. The one which washed over me just now contains the scent of pure spring water, biting-cold permafrost, and humid steam all at once, along with the underlying scent of sunlight in a cold day.

I move my feet, and they find purchase on the surface of the water, preventing me from sinking.

[Oh, my. A visitor? That's rare.]

" **Oh, my. A visitor? That's rare."**

The instant my feet leave dry land, I am no longer surrounded by the trees of Llyn Llydaw, but I am now in a world where an eternal sun warmly glows overhead inside a submerged kingdom. The water around me is as light as air, with its weight can be adjusted according to the rulers' mood regarding any visitors. The sky and the ground are equally bright as noon, further distorting the underwater scene. Any mortals seeing this contrasting scenes will be driven insane just by the conflict of logic going on around them..

Welcome to the Inside of the World.

[To what do we owe the pleasure, Vessel?]

" **To what do we owe the pleasure, Vessel?"**

I am facing two entities, both of exactly the same faces. As befitting the dwellers of this side of the World, their strength... or, rather, their 'weight' is enormous. Every living being in the World, and even several inanimate objects, has a conceptual 'weight', a measure of how much it can affect the World and maintain that change. The 'heavier' the existence, the easier for it to manipulate and outright cheat the laws of the World. This applies to all three people present, to a varying degree.

Both are clearly female, though sex matters little in the Inside. However, the differences in their presence is like night and day.

The one on my left looks like what most people imagined as a slime. However, the word 'gorgeous' pales in comparison with her beauty and elegance. Her skin and flesh are certainly translucent, shaping into seductive curves and peaks of a woman. Her secondary sexual characteristics are noticeably smoothened over, as she can control how she looks freely. Long tendrils from her head acts as her hair, and instead of the usual thick tentacles, her tendrils are actually the size of human hair. Sweet scents emanate from her body, enticing any mortals who dare step into her domain.

The one on my right is her polar opposite. If the first being embodies the ever-changing characteristics of liquid, the second being's body is a masterpiece of a solid sculpture. Her skin, smooth but as hard as marble, is darker than her counterpart, but her body still moves with the same fluidity and grace. Her private parts aren't smoothened off, but a shroud of mist constantly conceals them, tempting all men to desire her but never letting them have a tantalizing peek. Her hair blazes with the temperance of fire, but his skin feels no heat from it coiling and stroking over his chest and arms sensually. Instead, it feels as cold as her sister's tendrils, which are doing the same over his face and legs.

The Ladies of the Lake, Nimue and Nyneve.

From what I can gather from the Akashic Records, both of them are actually one entity, simply expressing themselves, or herself, in two different personalities. It's an example of yin-yang, two opposites of one, and provides a contrasting view of life. One of justice and order, and the other of darkness and chaos. Just as one of the swords in his library represents hope and glory, there exist another counterpart symbolizing treachery and ruin.

Therefore, my task is to persuade the other half to _not_ mess around in the Outside.

I smile at them. "To put it simply, Lady Nimue, I am here to persuade you to cease your machinations."

The tendrils caressing my face strengthen their grip, but it proves to be a playful effort. My 'weight', in this form, matches the two of them combined.

Gently, a cold flame slaps the thin tendrils away.

" **I think it's best to heed his advice, sister,"** Nyneve admonishes her counterpart.

However, Nimue flashes an ecstatic grin. [Why, oh why, dear sister? This Vessel is a mere messenger, sent by _that thing_ , who, if I may remind you and me, has no authority here.]

The tendrils go wild, flailing about her surroundings and enveloping her statue-like sister. Briefly, the flame and mist contract in defense, before expanding again, easily pushing aside the liquid threads.

Without pausing at the resistance, Nimue continues, [Fufufu, isn't it better? We both are stuck here for eternity, oh lovely sister, so why not play?]

She reaches a translucent hand to caress Nyneve's smooth cheek, causing the latter to embrace the raching hand calmly. It's a scene of back-and-forth effort of control, between the two personalities, but I am certain of one thing: none of them will come out on top. If it's possible for one to win and dominate, there will be no two personalities in the first place, since the weaker one would be subjugated by the stronger one long ago.

Nyneve returns her opposite's touch, Nimue's elastic membrane shivering at the sensation. **"Be as it may, sister, when we play, you always lose and throw a tantrum."** She shows a teasing grin, causing the tendrils to retract so fast he has trouble seeing them, even with his Eyes.

[I did not!]

" **Yes, you did."**

[I did not!]

" **Yes, you did."**

' _This is going on for a while, isn't it?'_ I mentally sweatdrop.

"Ahem," I cough to gain their attention. "Now, to continue our conversation... I have to agree with Lady Nyneve."

[You little scoundrel!] Nimue's beautiful face contorts in surprise, but not anger. [Aren't you lot supposed to be impartial?]

"No, actually." I step forward, enough to position me to my preferred attack range. "Like you mentioned earlier, I am a creation of _it_ , and therefore biased against you, Lady Nimue."

[It's not fair!]

Nyneve turns to give him a thankful look.

" **As you see, her tantrum has started, honored Vessel,"** she pauses, only to shroud her sister in thick mist. **"Rest assured, I shall play with her without holding back. However, the Outside still relies on you."**

I bow to her. "You have my thanks, Lady Nyneve. Then, I shall take my leave as soon as possible, before Lady Nimue's childish antics cause harm to my mind."

Muffled sounds escapes from behind the mist in protest, but Nyneve merely returns my bow with a nod.

" **Farewell, Vessel, and may my blessings be with you."**

As I walk closer to the perimeter, a lovely voice calls out to him.

" **If I may ask, Vessel,"** Nyneve's voice rings in my ear, far closer than their actual distance suggests, **"which one are you?"**

To the commonly-asked question, I reply, "I am the tenth, 'SHIROU'."

* * *

' _Storm clouds are brewing over the Kingdom.'_

Of course, I mean that figuratively, rather than literally. Briton's weather isn't the best sort, but I'm talking about the political climate inside the kingdom. However, rather than a prediction, my thoughts are more of a recollection.

Every time I step foot on this World, I always ask for one thing.

' _Why am I here?'_

As a last resort, the Hero Vessel program is activated by Alaya when it foresees its own demise. As a being encompassing both space and time, it's more than capable of calculating and viewing various alternate futures and pasts, as well as monitoring the present. However, no matter how hard it spends its might, it's unable to avoid the event I call 'Angel Notes'.

It's a world devoid of humans, ruled by beings from other Worlds.

As the representation of humanity's power, with no human left, it's existence gradually shrinks to the point of extinction.

It's incredible to think that fear of death encompasses the most powerful of them all.

Of course, being originally human, I also possess such natural instincts, no matter how I dislike it. 'Fear of death' is a delicate emotion. For a normal, run-of-the-mill human being, this emotion can unlock many of his or her unknown potential, granting immense improvements in abilities. However, an existence solely dedicating itself to combat will find this emotion to be detrimental. After all, my training itself has already crossed the point of death long ago, so feeling 'fear of death' will only serve to freeze my reaction time.

Therefore, I subtly change my mindset. Not to the point of self-hypnosis, but simply in the realm of 'belief'. That is, if I die, the people I love will be sad.

" _The boy who stated he just doesn't want to see anyone cry…  
…Could only see crying humans forever."_

Often, I hear a female's voice saying this line in my dreams, mostly regarding my base template. Normally, I get annoyed when shown troublesome dreams, but it rings so close to my heart I begin to embrace his thought and ideals, assimilating them into my own. Not that we're much different in personalities and dreams in the first place, mind you, but his experiences are still very valuable.

As a person, I, Hero Vessel 'SHIROU', respect the Counter Guardian 'EMIYA' greatly.

In the end, my end goal is to effectively erase and replace the Counter Guardian program, so no more people will drown in their own ideals and die, cursing the World in return.

I know his joy. I know his pain. I know his ideals, his utopia. And so, I know how excruciating it is to have your ideals so distorted that it betrayed you instead.

No more.

For the sake of being a 'Hero of Justice'. For the sake of the Guardians and their dreams. For the sake of the previous nine generations of discoarded Vessels who failed. For the sake of the humanity I love. For these reasons, I will not falter.

For these reasons, I will fight.

I close my eyes, recalling the information I recieve from my creator.

It's a scene of bloodshed, of blood and tears, of glory and ruin. A tale of knights, of dragons and swords, of magic and drama. It's a story straight out of a literary masterpiece, only that it's very much real. It's a vision of this Kingdom's future, broken down to its tiniest details and causes. The decisions the actors made, the actions they preferred to take, and the inevitable ending, despite the efforts by previous Guardians.

It's what people call 'fate'. And they are right.

It is a cruel mistress.

The so-called 'Butterfly Effect' explains a phenomenon where the smallest change in history can lead to a massive change in the future. However, there exist various convergence of actions in every timeline, which I call 'nexus points', where any actions will only result in a chain of events that will end up in a predetermined nexus. Therefore, one can say these points in history as 'fate'.

The sheer unchanging nature of it makes me suspect these nexuses are controlled by each World's TYPE. In this planet, then of course it's Gaia.

No matter how hard a human tries, even Alaya itself is hard-pressed to change it.

And so the Hero Vessel program is born.

What is a 'hero' in the first place? Is it the champion of the people, defender of the weak? Or the slayers of beasts, the monster-slayers? Or is it the personification of people's ideals, embodied in various fairy tales?

No. The above points aren't wrong, but all of them have one thing in common.

A 'hero' is someone who can change the world.

Even if in the end those heroes succumbed to their own fates, the simple fact that they could bring change to their surroundings already qualified them as a 'hero'. These people always has more 'weight' than the normal humans, attracting many glories and blessings, but also curses and failures.

For me, being a 'Hero of Justice' is no longer viable. This ideal is no longer enough to save everyone I wish to save. It is simply an impossible dream, but precisely because it's impossible, it's incredibly worthy to chase after.

I will transcend it.

The people who the Guardians cannot save, the individuals who they forsake in order to gain Alaya's powers, the live sacrifices many say are necessary to save the greater good... all of them...

I will save them.

Because it's my ideal (way) of a hero.

Now, to find that runaway student of mine...

* * *

Mordred wakes to a feeling of softness.

Immediately, her trained mind snaps alert, while her body still relaxes, to allow for instant movements should the need arises. Tense muscles are slow to react, and even slower to move.

Her senses take in all available information. This softness is clearly from a matress; a cheap one, but one which is well-treated. Her nose picks up a mix of perfumed water and dust, clues which suggest the sheets isn't used for quite a while, and recently washed. The temperature suggest the time of dawn, and a fresh breeze from the gaps in the walls and ceilings carries the warmth of a hearth. Clearly, she's inside someone's house.

However, one question still pegs her mind.

' _How the hell did I get here?!'_

Tossing the sheets aside, she realizes her clothes has been changed, and her sword missing from her waist. It's not that much of a big deal; even if a male did see her naked, she's not such a small-minded woman to blame him. It's not like she's a virgin, anyway,,,

If he did touch her improperly, then as long as she holds breath in her body, there's always plenty of ways to kill him.

Closing her eyes, she focuses her Od, tuning it to Clarent's.

" _No, no, no, nonononono! Please, not like this...!"_

" _ **It is destiny, child..."**_

" _Fuck destiny! I won't be fate's plaything! Gramps!"_

When she comes to, her palm is holding the side of her head, which feels like a morningstar slams square into it. A lurch inside her stomach appears, but she holds down the revolting feeling.

Taking a deep breath, she steps out of the room silently.

The wooden floor should creak and squeak under her weight, but her musculature moves and contracts so naturally it doesn't. It isn't like Shirou's Kokyū Hohō, but her steps are more in tune with a feline predator: light, precise, and silent. Like the beast itself, it's a way of moving that isn't taught, but learned through instincts alone.

She expands her senses.

Several living signatures make themselves known to her, all sleeping soundly. There are about two dozens in the floor she's in alone, and another eight downstairs. It's a simple two-story establishment, a little larger than the average household, but far too cramped to hold this many people.

Slowly, she opens the door next to her room.

The presences inside counts six. There's no killing intent, or malice of any kind. As she pushes the door further, three bunk beds come into view, each with a child safely tucked in.

Feeling guilty for breaching their privacy, she closes the door and moves downstairs, where Clarent is calling her.

' _Hmm? Someone's awake?'_

Still moving quietly, she detects movement downstairs.

Two humans, perhaps female, judging from the weight pressing on the floor.

Arriving at the ground floor, a dim light from behind a door illuminates the corridor. From the size of the walls, it's quite a sizeable room, enough for two people she heard earlier to move about freely. Some clanging of metals sounds from behind the door, leading her to believe it's the kitchen.

However, checking on breakfast isn't her main priority now.

Some steps down the corridor is a window, one which she unlocks and goes through to the backyard. Of course, she closes it again, to prevent anyone knowing her absence.

A small store shed lays several meters from the main building. She closes the distance in a single leap, with a carefully kneaded magic energy Burst to avoid setting off whatever magi in the vicinity.

And, lo behold, right behind the door is her beloved sword.

Her headache returns, along with the memories...

 _Blood. Blood... flowing out. He's dying. Wounded, dead. It's warm..._

 _No, is it tears? Is it blood? Something's covering her eyes..._

" _ **All because of you!"**_

Gasping for breath, she feels her grip on Clarent's hilt tighten. Ah, when did she kneel? Perhaps it's a lapse of concentration, nothing more.

A familiar weight back on her hips, she returns to the house.

The warm smell of soup permeates the kitchen walls. Inside it, two women are hard at work, cooking breakfast for all the inhabitants inside their house.

For the two caretakers of the Alcott House, it's an everyday occurrence. Most people disagreed on the name, though.

Most call it 'the orphanage'. The elder woman always throws a fit whenever anyone mentions it to her face, so it's said in whispers.

To be frank, for Cecilia, it's not that big of a deal. They really are an orphanage, so why bother with fancy names? Hiding behind a false facade is a pointless exercise, instead, they should focus their energy into providing the children.

So that none ends up like herself.

Over the years, she has grown into a 'big sister' role in the House. It's a position that's bittersweet, as the adoring gazes of the children are certainly satisfying in their own way. Plus, she enjoys being able to help others, less fortunate like her.

On the other hand, it means she was never chosen for adoption by outsiders, dooming her to forever spend her days inside the orphanage.

Regardless, this thinking are shoved to the side as she and Mrs. Alcott chop the vegetables.

They are fortunate to be the few orphanages selected to be sponsored by the Kingdom itself. This means stable funding and easy administration, but the positives only outdid the negatives marginally. The money is just enough to properly feed the children, even in these numbers, but the food is never filling. As the prices of consumable goods fluctuate according to the state of the Kingdom, it's always a game of deadly balance to provide for all of them.

Mr. Alcott himself is working as an official, sending money periodically, but it also means he's busy with his own work and unable to assist the two ladies.

Both work silently in a choreographed duet, maneuvering the confines of the kitchen without getting in each other's way.

However, both hands stop as their ears catch a rapping on the wooden door.

"Ah..."

Their hearts aren't surprised. Rather, it's quite a different emotions altogether.

In front of a confused face at their silence and gaping mouth, their hearts are beating fast.

For a brief moment, the two women are stunned by another female's beauty.

When they found her fainting outside their garden, she was in a dire state. Mud and blood covered her body and clothes, and even that was very tattered. It was late at night as well, so they did all they could to treat her as best as possible. In the end, it turned out she wasn't heavily injured, and at that point both of them were too scared and tired to wonder whose blood was it bathing her body. From the exquisite sword hanging from her waist, they surmised she's a noble of some sort, but further guesses were halted as they both return to their beds.

However, in the light of the kitchen, her petite beauty is revealed in all its glory.

It's really hard to explain in words, as her fair complexion, golden hair, and green eyes are quite common in the Kingdom. Perhaps it's the lovely, adorable face that symbolizes her youth, or her slim musculature and her smooth skin, or the regal bearing she wears so naturally, complimenting her wild ponytail and clothing.

After a while, Cecilia manages to squeak out a few words.

"A-Ah, esteemed guest! You have awaken!" She reaches her hand to grab the girl's shoulder, half-pushing her out of the kitchen. "You are still ill! Please get back and rest."

A jingling of metal from the girl's waist answered her demands.

The girl smiles. She bows, before saying, "I am truly grateful for your assistance. Sadly, I must keep moving. Being in your hospitality for too long will only bring unwanted troubles, I assure you."

Rising her hand to cut Cecilia's protest, she continues, "Please, I am stating the truth. In this occasion, I-"

 _GGGRRRROOOOWWWWLLLLLL..._

Facing both elder women's teasing smile, Mordred relents.

"Ah... perhaps a few more minutes will do me good..."

* * *

Watching over the courtyard as the sun creeps up towards its peak, Mrs. Alcott grimly addresses Cecilia.

"I still think the lady's right. Having her here is too conspicuous."

Lightly biting her lip, the younger woman turns to her foster mother. "Perhaps you're right, Mother. Just... is it wrong to help other people? Isn't it what you always lectured me about?"

The elder woman smiles, patting Cecilia's head. "I'm glad you paid attention, for once." Ignoring the girl's peeved look, she continues, "However, we must also look beyond the obvious, to be able to help the many."

Gazing at the scene of the children playing with their new guest, she says, "Did you see her equipment? The blood? Someone with both can't bring any good to anywhere she goes, no matter how decent the actual person is. I'm just speaking from experience, and I may be wrong, but being careful never hurt anyone."

Both of them fall silent, contemplating the future and the past, trying to rack their brains for the next decision. None of them enjoyed formal education, as only nobles can afford to, so long-term planning isn't really their strong suit. However, since both of them feel this guest will bring massive influence and change towards their daily lives, they can only do their best.

A few minutes past. Suddenly, Mrs. Alcott says, "Don't tell me... you're still yearning for _that_?"

That question brings a blush to Cecilia's face. Even so, no refute comes from the girl, leading the matron to sigh.

"I was going to say 'act your age', but... If you feel it so strongly, and you haven't given up on that dream of yours, then I'll give my blessings. You never listen to me regarding this, anyway."

Any words coming out next is muffled by Cecilia's happy hug-slash-tackle.

A small voice says repeatedly, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Well, that's only she agrees. Work hard so she does, alright?"

"Yes!"

* * *

"Mm... big sis... don't eat mine..."

A petite hand strokes the child's hair, inciting several more sleepy mumbling from him.

In the general quarters of the Alcott House, several such younglings are sprawled all over the room, a few leaning on a beautiful young woman on the battered couch. Two other women are gingerly stepping around the boys and girls, picking up the smaller ones to carry them back to their rooms. After the area is cleared a little more, Mordred also starts carrying them back, two at a time inside her arms, showcasing tremendous strength and balance with such a thin body. Briefly, Cecilia and Mrs. Alcott are tempted to ask her secret, but they decide to put it off for now.

As the clock's short hand moves near the number ten, all the children are safely tucked under their respective blankets, leaving the three of them a free time to chat.

As usual, the conversation is formal and stiff.

After all that happened, Mordred still finds it difficult to properly bond with other people... closely. She wants to, and her first master also pushes her to be more social, but...

The nightmares will always flash through her mind.

The fear, the pain, the regret... with these emotions running wild inside her every time another person draws nearby, it's incredibly difficult to hold a civilized face. In turn, she adopts a distant persona, if only just to lessen the burden.

It's a curse, she supposes, for someone like her.

When she did it... As she plunged her sword into him, she could feel it.

His blood, no, his _existence_ flowed into her like a flood, drowning her in power. The flood felt like hellfire coursing through her veins, changing her body cell by cell, molecule by molecule. However, the physical pain was nothing like the torture her soul endured.

To begin with, a Phantasmal Being is a creature on a far different league than a human, much less a homunculus, no matter how flawless her creation is. To induce a fusion of souls, even if it's a diluted dragon's, is tantamount to suicide.

That's exactly what she felt.

How to describe it, really? No single author or scholar has ever felt their own minds, their sanity, their souls being eroded away. To be overwhelmed, and turned into something else entirely... The terror griping her heart, the disgust lashing her body, and the pain piercing her soul made her unable to even scream.

The only thing anchoring herself into the World was her memories of love.

It was shameful.

Because... in his final moments...

He smiled at her.

It wasn't a comforting smile, or the smile of a person satisfied with his own life.

Rather, it was the smile of someone whose plan has succeeded.

He... he _violated_ her existence. She's not clear on the reason, but then, who did? The minds of the Inside dwellers are impossible to fathom by human standards, their logic is twisted by millennia of seclusion.

' _What if...?'_

No, no. She doesn't want to think like that. To let the fear of that demon overwhelming her is an insult to everything she is. She's a knight, for crying out loud!

She will never back down!

But for how long? How long until the nightmares becomes more intense? How long her mind can endure? Even now, her blood curdles and boils at the sight of the two defenseless women in front of her, demanding she gave in to the impulses of destruction. However, with practiced mentality, she manages to have them under control.

Cecilia continues to speak, trying to gain the female knight's attention. She knows what she wants, and what to say to be granted that. She has practiced in the mirror, dressing herself nicely, and so on.

However, looking closer, the look on Mordred's eyes discouraged her.

No, rather, having observed her guest for a few days already, her courage to speak her wishes becomes dimmer and dimmer.

Mordred, she... Unlike the knights she has seen, or the characters inside the bedtime stories, she pushes everyone away. Not due to arrogance or disgust, but, from what Cecilia can see, out of fear. But what drove her away isn't because of that emotion against others.

Mordred is afraid of herself, and as such, put others at arm's length.

Cecilia prides herself in her ability to judge people, and she's almost certain in this regard. Perhaps the knight has hurt someone in the past? Someone important? Or maybe causing various troubles because of her own strength? The reasons varies, and she can't get a definite evidence as which is correct.

The look in Mordred's eyes is familiar to the young girl, as she often sees the bigger kids sporting a similar gaze when they breaks some pieces of furniture, those usually quite expensive so that they can't replace it. After the accidents, they now has learned their lessons, and treads more carefully around the house, afraid of the shortage of money and the punishment.

Yes, that look is present even now, as they are chatting.

She knows it's not something she should butt her nose into, yet she is still curious. Other than the curiosity, the feeling she feels most prominently now is sympathy. What is it like to possess overwhelming strength? She herself is a simple village girl, one who has very good constitution, but of course she will still falls short of this guest's level. To have that much gift and talent, and yet being so powerful one's afraid to interact with others...

What a lonely world Mordred's living in.

This sympathy overrides her greed and desire for her wish, which is to be a female knight just as Mordred is. She wants the petite knight to tutor her, maybe take her in as a squire, but all that thinking goes up in flames.

Rather, she wants to be her friend. Simple, full stop.

It tears at her heart, how someone this young is burdened with such a heavy responsibility. She has seen her fair share of children being taken into this Alcott House because of various circumstances, many of which aren't pleasant or even humane. However, this... curse, that binds the young knight... her spirit shouts at her to release it from Mordred, even with her own feeble strength.

Within just a few days, she is hopelessly charmed by Mordred.

Her looks, her mannerisms, her thought... all of it are so fascinating, so much so than what she can imagine. Her child-like passion now burns brightly, at the chance to be able to be useful to another, not just the people around her, but also this woman who comes from afar.

That's why... she's going to make the request.

"Miss Mordred," she begins, her voice firm.

"H-Huh?! Ah, yes!" Mordred reflexively replies, hurried and unfocused. People may have found her mannerisms to be rude, but not Cecilia. She roughly knows of this woman's hardships, and thus won't begrudge her for it.

She gets off the chair, and kneels in front of her guest, much to Mordred's bewilderment.

"E-Eh?! Cecilia, what are you-"

"Please take me with you!"

Silence.

' _Ah, I didn't mean to phrase it like that...'_ Cecilia sweatdrops.

Her face reddens and heats up, all her previous courage seemingly gone by her last sentence. She can feel her hands tremble from embarrassment, her head hanging low, unable to meet Mordred's surprised gaze.

After a few tense seconds, a reply comes.

She prays in her heart it will be a positive one, even if she has just maybe pushed the knight away.

"Ah... if you're alright with me, then... it's fine," Mordred huffs, her arms crossed, "I-It's not as if I have too much time and lonely... A-Anyway!"

She stands up, her finger pointing at Cecilia's face.

"It'll be the hardest life you'll ever know. Are you prepared?"

The return smile shines twice as bright as the sun.

"Yes, ma'am!"

* * *

Amidst the black fog, a figure rises up from its rest.

"Dragon..."

A whisper which is a promise... Nay, a curse...

Between the trees, a voice resounds, as if saying a prayer or a chant. Deep, powerful, mysterious. Clearly, _not human_.

The being moves sluggishly. Immediately, its gigantic body is evident by the sound of crushed woods and smashed earth. However, what is supposed to be a thunderous march is dampened by a liquid sound.

If a human hears it coming, he or she will liken its approach to an incoming flood, intent to wipe out anything under its feet.

Right now, it's senses are honed to one thing, and one thing only.

"DRAAAAGOOOOOON!"

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **H**

 **Hero Vessel**

 **A safeguard for Alaya's future, the program was conceived during a period where humans were on a decline, almost to extinction. Based on the 'Grand Servant' project from the Throne of Heroes, but adapted so the Vessels could blend in more easily among humans, therefore increasing the chances to change humanity for the better and to ensure its survival from behind. The selection involves the merging of parallel identities from the Akashic Records, creating a brand new, 'prototype' Hero at the cost of the originals.**

 **Compatibility is key for being chosen, and the process to transform an ordinary soul, merge it with the necessary attributes and powers, and forge it to an acceptable level is harsh. Compatibility ranges from one-in-a-billion to one-in-a-trillion, and the candidates are frequently destroyed by the training process after the selection. To date, there's only less than ten successful examples, each with differing specialities and traits.**


	3. Prelude to Mortal Combat

**Hello, ladies and gentleman! Thank you for still keeping up with this story! Your reviews, follows, and favorites are what keeps me going and fuels my appetite. Now, for a Q &A session, since some of your reviews and PMs are quite interesting for me to answer.**

 **Kiritsugu: Wow, thank you for the expansive and in-depth review. As for the difference between the Nasuverse's history and the one I wrote, it's partly intentional to create a more dramatic background to this universe. Your information is absolutely correct, it just doesn't fit too nicely with the logic I'm using. In any case, I implore you to advise me more through PMs, since the review section for the mobile site is quite short, and your review is cut off on my phone. Great stuff!**

 **There's some of you who I think misread the previous chapter, regarding the part where Mordred was having a flashback. It wasn't a physical assault, but a mental one, like how the original Shirou in the HF route was having his mind slowly eroded by Archer's arm. In one word, she's 'mind-fucked', and some of you as well!**

 **You may notice how I will switch between male and female pronouns when addressing Altria... And yes, I'm using that name, rather than the official 'Artoria' because it didn't sound nice to my ears. Anyway, the change will depend on whose POV I'm basing the scene on, and some characters will have no knowledge regarding her true gender, for example, Bedivere, and some who does... which are pretty much everybody else.**

 **Also, I based the storyline on the real-life legends and interpretations of King Arthur. For those of you who's unfamiliar with it, I'll try to explain (concisely) in-story, but expansive history won't be put in, so you have to look it up yourself. I apologize, but it's the only way to make the story flow better. If I start writing thousand-words thesis on the history, I'll never finish any chapter.**

 **And with that, enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: Ooohhh! Look at that mountain of money I made from the commercial use! It looks... looks fantastically... empty... *shattered glass BGM***

* * *

Through the morning mist, two sets of footsteps can be heard. Accompanying them are two sets of breathing, and when comparing the two, it's obvious who is tired and who is not.

After a short while, a dull thud echoes across the street, like a heavy object falling flat to the ground.

On the side of the road, inside a small clearing still unused, but full of short grass, two women are resting. One sits still, while the other is heavily panting on the first woman's lap, her body limp and damp with sweat. The fitter one is wiping the other's brow with a piece of cloth, an amused smile on her face.

To Mordred, Cecilia is a first.

Is it like this when Shirou picked her up? The serene, happy feeling welling inside her chest every time Cecilia looks at her with respect and admiration... How cute, like a puppy.

Alright, her new student is much more developed than a puppy... or rather, even compared to her own chest...

To avoid accidentally crushing Cecilia's head, she put aside her hand onto the grass, where it's immediately turned into ash.

In the first place, why did she even excepted Cecilia's plea? Originally, Mordred knew in her heart a being like her could only attract trouble, even without that damn dragon's influence. To put innocent people in danger because of what she is... it's not a pleasant thought at all. Thus, she sought to leave after resting for a day.

However, seeing the orphanage in action... Perhaps being with other children, orphans like her, who never knew their parents and being brought up happily by others stroke a button inside her heart. Maybe she saw herself inside each and every one of them, including Cecilia, when she felt the restlessness at a sleepless night thinking of her own origin. How many of them have felt the same thing? The griping tightness inside her heart, consuming her thought process and her behavior...

It was torture.

Before she knows it, she has grown attached to the Alcott House, and everyone inside it.

Mrs. Alcott is the strict mother, hard but fair, a fixed point in the midst of uncertainty of life for the kids. Cecilia is the caring big sister who everyone gets along with, and the preferred confidant for the children's feelings and thoughts. The children is a ruckus as always, some wild, some meek, but they all see each other as precious family, one they were cruelly robbed of in the past.

Seeing the cohesive family, she feels... sympathy, at the very least. Envy is the farthest thing in her mind, as she is happy now with how she grew up and who raised her, the things he taught her were incredibly useful and efficient, and she had loved him in return. It's not a bad way to mature... Imperfect, of course, but not a bad way.

So, why? All this thinking doesn't answer her first question.

She never sought glory or worship from others. All she wished for is to prove herself she isn't what her mother designed her to be, to prove to everyone she can conquer the destiny preordained by Morgan le Fay and triumph over it. Her mother wanted her to be her avenger against the King, Altria Pendragon, and so she birthed Mordred.

To be the Knight of Betrayal, that's her fate.

As Shirou said, she'd throw that sentence away and showed it the finger.

Maybe... she wants to be a role model to others? If she acts correctly in accordance to her desire to be the best there is, having a student will only confirm her success, right? If the student becomes a great person as well, won't the teacher also receives praise? So, in effect, there are two existences that can make the name 'Mordred' synonymous with gallantry and glory, which are herself and Cecilia.

Using Cecilia, she strives to prove herself correct. If, it turns out, this girl disappoint in conduct and abilities, then Mordred will know her own weaknesses and rectify it.

Objectively, that is the reason.

However, even a homunculus like her also possesses a considerable amount of subjectivity regarding personal matters. It's this feeling, or instinct, inside her heart she just can't ignore, but also can't explain properly with words at the same time. It's clear she likes Cecilia as a person, or else she wouldn't have accepted her student's request, but the emotion goes beyond mutual affection.

' _Hmm... argh, I don't know!'_

Really, thinking deeply about this philosophical thing isn't her strong suit.

She has read the works of scholars and philosophers as part of her study, but it's only because Shirou was able to teach it to her in an interesting manner. During her trip towards the Inside of the World, she made several stops at a few inns to rest her body. There was usually some smartass in the bar who'd challenge anyone's intellect just to boast his own, and all she could think about was how good it'd be to squash their heads like apples under her feet.

Regardless, the reason isn't important right now. She wants result.

Returning her attention back to her panting student, she pushes Cecilia's upper body upward.

"Okay, that's enough rest! Next up!"

"Hah... hah... M-Master... I just... wait, please..."

"This is just warm up! The real deal is next!"

"I-I'll die..."

However, even with these complains, Cecilia still stands up, ready for her next phase of training. A good behavior. If this continues, she'll get into shape in no time.

Being a knight, especially in these turbulent times, is very physically demanding, especially the ones specialized in combat, not governing. The noble-turned-knight maybe more suited in managing land or political maneuvering, but the Knights of the Round Table are all chosen for their ability in the battlefield and in duels, testing their personal skills and troop commanding.

Even with squires at their side, knights still has to move around in metal armor equipped with an array of their selected weapons. Mordred herself only prefers her beloved Clarent and her gauntlets, filling her disadvantages with Magecraft. Others are probably similar, and, in return, the squires who assist the knights must also keep pace with their master, if not more, as they also carry additional items alongside their own.

For a simple village girl like Cecilia, who has never conducted a training regime, it's very hard. That's why they start with general muscle training first, but with a heavier repetition than normal to speed up her training.

Mordred plans to leave after a few more days, therefore Cecilia needs to be in shape as soon as possible.

Her instincts are telling her to do so, so she follows.

Hopefully, nothing bad happens during these times...

A person can dream, right?

* * *

Inside the castle of Camelot, a high level meeting is happening.

Around the infamous Round Table, several figures can be seen seated, alongside their trusted retainers who are standing a distance away from their master's seat. However, almost half of the seats are empty out of the two-dozen, in which one peculiar person is sitting on.

Contrasting the prim and proper attires of the other knights, this man wears his white robe sloppily, letting it crimp under his seat and flows all over the place. His back is slouched into the chair, as opposed to the straight and powerful backs of the knights. He has one hand on the armrest, a clearly disrespectful behavior anywhere, much less now in front of the King.

However, none dares or bothers correcting his behavior, as they are simply too used to it, or perhaps too annoyed at the man himself they just doesn't want to interact with him at all. These two factions of opinions are supported by a third, who finds dealing with someone as powerful as him is just asking for trouble and misery.

In any case, this person is the one who called for this meeting, so his manners can be excused.

A clink of metal sounds, signifying the King's wish to speak.

"Well, Merlin, please begin."

As that sentence is uttered, the knights' atmosphere changed. Sharper, denser, tougher. They all know what this meeting entails: incredible danger.

As the Knights of the Round Table, their task includes defending the country and the people's honor, after serving God. This very reason is why half their members aren't present, instead, they are currently on various important missions around the country. Most of the ones attending, coincidentally or not, are the senior knights, and as such familiar with the tension inside this room.

Still with a lazy demeanor, the court magus sweeps the people attending with his eyes, before reporting, "I spent the last few years researching a recent anomaly in Rheged."

The location causes quite a few raised eyebrows.

The first to speak is Sir Lamorak, as always with his short temper. "Rheged? Urien's place?" He narrows his eyes. "Are you suggesting a treason, Merlin?"

"As brave as your suggestions are, Lamorak," Kay sneers, "it only makes you sound like a stupid brute. Therefore, I suggest you remove yourself from this meeting, lest your mouth lets slip something even stupider. Politely, of cour-"

\- BANG!

As the King's gauntlet warns her step-brother and the boiling Lamorak, Merlin continues.

"Ah, indeed Sir Kay is half-correct, which, in return, also means Sir Lamorak is also half-correct." He waves his hand, summoning pieces of parchment onto the table in front of the knights. "It regards the disappearance of my beloved, Morgan le Fay."

"Merlin..." Altria growls menacingly.

He raises both his arms as a sign of surrender. "Of course, I am not such flimsy of a personality, my dear King, acting out of lust."

The parchment exists in several copies, all of which are also distributed to the retainers standing behind the knights and the King, which includes Queen Guinevere. Altria always holds the principle of the Round Table in high regard: there are no heads or tails on the table, and therefore everyone seated is an equal. Over the years, as the members of the court grew, this philosophy also extends towards the others in attendance, provided they proved themselves worthy enough to stand in the same room as the King and the Knights of the Round Table.

A cough from Merlin signals his continuation.

"I set off on my journey the moment I sensed a disturbance in nature, powerful enough to be felt from hundreds of miles away. I have only know of two phenomena that can create such impact on the World: a rip in the fabric of reality, or a battle between two beings that can do just that.

"I shall spare the explanation regarding the former. The thing of utmost importance is the latter, in which I believe one such creatures battled Morgan and laid waste to the environment.

"The impacted site was surprisingly small, considering the forces involved. Evidences I found indicates a powerful Bounded Field being erected before and during the clash, as was evident in the abruptness between the wasteland and the pristine forest in the drawings I sent you."

Indeed, the images on the parchment begin to move in a timed loop, allowing the reader to review the event captured again and again. The writings are also consistent with Merlin's explanation, along with a map spanning two pages at the very back. The site is located just east of Rheged's border, in the middle of nowhere, though they are glad it didn't cause any collateral damage to the living.

"However, the evidences I managed to acquire were all superficial, with nothing indicating the perpetrator; his or her indentity and abilities were still a mystery. Everything more concrete was sourced from what remained of Morgan's Workshop, with all the protective barriers and curses shattered to pieces by force, allowing me easy access.

"Please, flip to page 9."

After confirming everyone is on the same page, Merlin continues his report.

"What you are seeing is an excerpt from Morgan's newest creation: a homunculus."

He delivers the last word as if it's a punchline, sadly, no one quite get what he is saying about, and therefore he's caught flat-footed. Chuckling to erase the awkwardness, he begins to explain.

"A-ha-ha... er, it's an attempt to create a human being, breathing a soul into a hand-made body."

Collective gasps can be heard across the room.

How can they not? A life, that is, anything with a soul, is a gift most pure bequeathed by God Himself. A human, a witch, nonetheless, tries to replicate the miracle seen only inside the Garden of Eden? Even the most skeptical and irreligious among the knights express their disgust at the blasphemy.

"Do not be alarmed. It is a somewhat common topic and aspirations among us magi, as we always strive to achieve the impossible. For example, I myself has recently perfected a spell to blend animal characteristic advantageous to humans without the usual monstrous side effects. The method is top secret, of course," his eyes glints playfully, "unless someone can afford to pay me enough, that is."

He claps to avert their attention away. "But, that is another topic. What matters is Morgan's attempt at creating this homunculus, one she calls her 'daughter' quite affectionately in her notes."

A raised hand halts his speech.

"Yes, Sir Lancelot?"

"I am not well-versed in Magecraft, as you all know," Lancelot says softly, "but I know Lady Morgan quite well. If she really was as passionate as you claim about this creation, there is a big possibility she has already succeeded."

The handsome face becomes harder. "So, where is this homunculus? Is it- _she_ , destroyed in the aftermath?"

"All in due time, good Sir, all in due time," Merlin answers. "Now, where were we?"

With a pop, he smacks a fist into his palm. "There are two general paths in creating the homunculus. First, using materials to construct a fully functioning human body, before imprinting behavior and mannerism using advanced Pychokinesis and Spiritual Evocation. This method usually yields sturdy servants, yet disposable as their expiry date is quite short.

"Morgan herself was researching the second avenue, which uses the normal human sperm and egg to create life, and after its soul has stabilized, the child's body is augmented using various chemical and physical methods to the creator's liking. Theoretically, the resulting homunculus would've been closer to a normal human being than the first method, including its lifespan, but no one has actually achieved this perfection. Human bodies naturally cannot handle intensive treatment, and therefore trades power with durability.

"Morgan believed the key to solving this flaw was to create a child with an inhuman blood flowing through its veins, preferably a strong creature."

His gaze falls onto the King's face. "Say, a dragon."

The air in the room freezes, as all present goes pale from shock.

Grinning happily as his second punchline works, Merlin excitedly continues.

"Morgan herself is a descendant of fairies, which carries powerful Thaumaturgical potency. Combined with the otherworldly strength of dragon's blood, she conceived within herself the 'perfect daughter', as she called her creation."

The Queen can barely squeeze out a small voice.

"E-Even her own child is..."

"Sadly, it is the norm in the Moonlit World, Your Highness."

All present know of her ongoing birth problems, since it's been a few years the Kingdom hasn't been granted an heir. This issue isn't widely spread, but there's an ongoing unrest regarding the future of the empire, even if the King is supposed to be forever youthful and immortal. Apart from three others beside the Queen, none know the true reason behind this, however, Guinevere's sentiment is shared among the men (and women) in the room.

Once more, the air is cut by the King's actions.

"Merlin," Altria's voice is grave.

"Where is this homunculus now?"

"Missing."

The room turns silent, but the disquiet which occurs contain a massive 'WHAT!' from the listeners.

"Inside the innermost sanctum of her Workshop, there was an empty glass chamber, presumably filled with life-sustaining fluids. Homunculi's growth are usually accelerated, and it seemed this was no different. From the clues scattered around, I can only form two conclusions... no, two hypotheses."

Merlins lifts a single finger.

"First, the homunculus went berserk, smashing herself out of confinement as soon as she gained consciousness and killing her mother in rage and insanity. The aftermath of the fight suggested a more powerful opponent than a single homunculus, however, as her exact creation method was lost to the destruction, it's very possible for her to gain such power beyond Morgan's prediction and understanding. As a rule, a magus always walks with death, and that rule is based on the natural uncertainty of Magecraft itself. Therefore, this possibility cannot be ruled out."

He lifts a second finger.

"The second, and more likely, theory was a smash-and-grab by someone else. I couldn't acertain the motive behind the assault, or whether there was any motive at all, but the lack of destruction inside her Workshop suggested an invader from the outside. However, as to why the homunculus was taken or has escaped in the fiasco was beyond my investigation, and therefore this theory is inconclusive. Plus, someone as powerful as Morgan couldn't be taken down by the run-of-the-mill Magus Killer, and such a person was unlikely to escape my senses."

This time, it is Tristan who raises his hand.

"Such damage... are there no clues at all regarding the opponent's ability?"

Merlin shakes his head.

"The original Bounded Field erected before I arrived has defused plenty of magic energy to analyze, while the opponent seemed to be skilled at erasing any clues regarding his or her actions. I did try some Divinations on various objects scattered around, but the information was far too jumbled and incomprehensible."

Despite the King's warning, Kay still speaks next.

"A magus and fighter superior to the Witch of Faeries and the Supreme Magus? I dare say, this person requires the highest priority of our attention, no, of the entire Kingdom, even." Any traces his mocking voice is gone, replaced by the professional knight. "A loose cannon is certainly most dangerous, and an unknown one at that."

"As much as I loathe it," Lamorak grumbles, "his idea is sound. Your Majesty, please give us an order."

Tristan interrupts suddenly. "Ah, please excuse me for a moment, Your Majesty. What about the homunculus? It is also a potential danger, not just to the people, but to your safety as well."

Yes, what the knights don't miss is the shadow of a purpose of the homunculus's creation. Morgan created her to such lengths, even taking a biological sample from the King or his bloodline, definitely to serve a sinister purpose. Her most prominent targets are the two people inside this room, the King himself and Merlin. None of them cared one bit regarding this mischievous magus, but the King's safety is of the utmost priority.

In modern times, this sort of problems are usually handed over first to an intelligence division, before the overt military operations takes over. However, in this fledgling Kingdom, the division tasked with this duty is still in its growing phase, and therefore ineffective to comb the entire Kingdom to search for two people, especially those who can escape Merlin's ability. In all aspect, Merlin himself is the sole qualified personnel to conduct the investigation, but Altria has plans to occupy him already.

And so, she addresses one knight who haven't spoken yet.

"Gawain."

"Sir!"

"Take the minimum number of people you can. I entrust this to you."

"By your command," the knight clad in green clothing answers.

"Merlin, since I have further favors from you, please assist him for now."

The magus grins. "A favor from me is not cheap, Your Majesty. I urge you to exercise caution."

No one misses the twitch of Altria's eyebrow, indicating her shortening temper.

"Sir Merlin, is that all?" Queen Guinevere decides to mediate between the two before any damage can be done, and says in a gentle voice, "If so, then I call this meeting adjourned. Agreed?"

After a collective answer to the question, all of them leave for their duties, unknowingly signalling the next era of the Kingdom.

* * *

[Fufufu, sister, it seems I have the advantage now.]

" **As long as you do not cry later, you can laugh all you want, sister."**

The two Ladies of the Lake are watching a scene reflected on the surface of a pool of water inside their own domain. In it, a beast is rampaging through some forest in the middle of nowhere, devouring what it can and destroying the rest.

The beast... no, perhaps an 'abomination' is the more correct term, as it has no definite shape that marks it as a single animal. Rather, its entire body is a twisted amalgamation of various animals, seemingly blended apart and put back together by a toddler. Its outer skin holds no solid shape, instead morphing and twisting horribly to show pieces of body parts from different animals every few seconds. Any sane living being can only label it as a 'monster' in every sense.

Its appearance is clearly too unnatural to be birthed from nature. Many will suspect it is a wicked creation by a madman, or the result of a horrible experimentation gone wrong. However, none of the theories above is true.

It's origin lays in the shroud of mystery. Even Nimue and Nyneve knows nothing, despite their age and power. It's true name is only recorded sparingly in today's texts, which is impossible to pronounce with modern tongue.

Those from the Age of Gods call it the 'Soil of Genesis'.

It's a lost art, only mastered by chief gods of each domains. As the name suggests, it is a 'starting point' of all creation, able to absorb and birth an unlimited number of creatures, sentient or not. However, the most terrifying thing about this spell isn't it's capability or versatility.

It is because it is effectively sentient and self-sustaining.

Having an amalgamation of living beings, no matter how diluted the presence, will also mix the beings' soul into one single mass. This chaotic soup of madness will try to influence and devour each other, fighting for dominance every second, and in effect, taking over the core's soul and merging with it, creating something new. There were many occasions when the spell overtakes the caster, despite their divine blood and magical aptitude, and turning them into mindless monsters over a few centuries.

However, this particular... thing the Ladies are watching is even rarer.

It's a naturally occuring Soil of Genesis.

The chance of it happening is infinitesimally small. One will have a better luck trying to shoot an arrow through a needle ten miles away, such is the rarity. Even across the parallel worlds, where every possibility can and will occur, this birth of a beast will only occur in one or two of them.

Precisely how it happened... no one knows. Perhaps a number of powerful animals devoured each other, and by the slimmest of chance, activated the main conciousness necessary for this spell? Or perhaps a human being awakened to his or her Origin that was somehow very compatible with the spell? Even through these methods, the chance of it succeeding was effectively zero.

And yet, here it is.

At long last, in their monotonous and eternally blank lives, something new and interesting is happening.

[Would you like a tip in betting, sister?]

" **It is unnecessary."**

[Fufufu, your confidence is adorable. You think that half-baked dragon descendant can overcome this trial? Fufufu, a hero may be one she aspires to be, but a hero she will fail to become.]

" **Kukuku, I find your opinion amusing, sister. Are you not discriminating against her because she is a homunculus?"**

[And are you not favoring her because you adore that Vessel? Fufufu, he is very charming, I do not doubt his ability to bewitch my sister.]

" **T-That is not true!"**

[You are blushing, sister. So, so red...]

" **At the very least, I need not to force my aspirations to someone, unlike a person I know!"**

[K-Kuh! Sister, do you really want to pursue that train of thought?]

A normal human being will have been crushed by the enmity emitted by the pair of them.

" **In any case, I have casted my vote. This girl is a wild gem, I admit, but I see the beauty inside her. She will triumph in the end, overturning the strings of fate binding her."**

[Hahaha! Countless brave men and women have tried exactly that, yet they have failed, even with the blessings of the merciful gods. Do you not remember, sister, the last person to receive our blessings? She was branded a foolish queen, ridiculed and humiliated by the nations! Her weak, young Kingdom is now under threat, with no structure to hold it together with her legacy. Instead, the current King has no idea the Queen's blood flows through her veins, and set about her own destiny. Is that the sort of hero you wish the homunculus to become, sister? A forgotten one? A disgraced one?]

" **Again, your shortsightedness astounds me, sister. You fail to see that humans, and in this case I am including the homunculus and her kind, possess the potential to be the greatest being of all. Yes, they squander and fail too often, and yet the potential never disappears. Would you know to know why?"**

A brief moment of silence occurs as Nimue thinks of the answer, but failed.

" **It is because a hero can overturn any odds and obstacles in his or her way, even if the Sisters of Fate deems them unable to. This ability to null everything destined for them is their greates gift from their creators, and that is what I love."**

Nyneve spreads her hands towards the viewing screen.

" **And so, this is why you will lose once more, sister. As the Knight of Treachery will rise anew, as a fledgling dragon will rise from the flames of heaven!"**

* * *

Cecilia is moving at breakneck speeds.

No, she herself is unable to move with such ferocity. Instead, her body is tightly hugging her master's, clinging on for dear life as Mordred accelerated like a bullet.

Another step, and the earth crumbles beneath her mighty leap.

Cecilia's ears has stopped ringing some time ago, merely because her conciousness is solely focused on her arms rather than her ears. However, she steels her heart to continue to look in front.

The surroundings becomes nothing more than an incomprehensible blur. Shockwaves from Mordred's steps batter her body, already sore from training, even more. However, her arms does not let go.

It was like every other day. They woke up early in the morning when they would help Mrs. Alcott with some chores, then ran off towards their morning training. The training itself was severe as usual, pushing Cecilia's body to feel like she's half a step from her own grave. She always wondered how on earth a woman physically smaller than her could have such incredible physical prowess.

It all changed when Mordred's face stiffened all of a sudden.

Her master's expression was one which she hated the most, regarding to Cecilia's own past.

Her parents showed her that look, right before the blades of those sick men tore right through their body.

This time, there were no robbers or bandits. There were no natural disaster to run from.

It was a gigantic beast swallowing the village.

A sudden deceleration nearly tears her neck off, but her master hustles her to get down quickly, tossing her the spare training sword.

"Find any survivors and gather them! I'll leave you to evacuate all of the villagers! Hurry!"

Never before her master has spoken with such urgency, and so Cecilia scrambles to her feet, her heart fervently praying for the survival of everyone she holds dear.

"I'll get its attention! Don't worry about me, just go!"

With those words, the hesitation to help her master disappears.

She leaves, running and shouting the villagers' names.

Mordred stares at the back of her student getting smaller and smaller with distance.

All of a sudden, the air around her explodes with terrifying intensity.

The monster turns... or what she thinks it does, because all it does is form a new grotesque face which stares right at her, attracted by the magic energy Burst.

Silently, she draws her prized companion.

Its silver gleam shines under the morning sun, pointing straight upwards like a tower of hope.

A trickle of magic energy starts to fill its grooves, coloring it with streaks of various colors of red, dazzling the beast.

Relaxing her muscles. Calming her breathing. Steadying her gaze.

She hereby declares to the World.

"Come."

An earth-shattering roar answers her.


	4. Ghostlight Firefly

**How'd you like that damn cliffhanger?**

 **Well, everyone, rejoice... for your wish is going to be granted... (Jouji Nakata's voice impersonation)**

 **As always, I really appreciate those of you who reviewed, fav'ed, and followed me. Props to all of you. I'm rather liking this situation: everyone's curious, so none of you asked much questions like the first two chapters. I hope this one can at least cast some light into that dark minds of yours, so enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I never even played F/GA, so of course I don't own TYPE-MOON.**

* * *

"Hah... hah... hah..."

It is hell.

Cecilia looks over her shoulder, and sees a nightmare.

Her house, destroyed. Her village, devoured. Her friends, murdered. Everything she has is now gone, annihilated by that monster.

Her master is fighting it. She has no doubt of her master's abilities, but just _looking_ at that... abomination of the natural laws, she feels her mind going crazy.

The blackness of the body. The everchanging creatures who shows their body parts. The disgusting stench it emits. The heart-stopping roar every time it shouts. The tremor in the ground as it steps. All these assaults her senses, overwhelming them like never before.

She feels sick.

She tries to quell her upset stomach, but all it does is make it more uncomfortable. However, she must stay strong.

Because everyone is depending on her.

Mothers carrying children run behind her through the forest, their hands on their child's mouth to stifle the cries. The men remaining moves at the back and the sides, as per Cecilia's instruction, clearing any obstacles that may hinder the group.

Right around her, the children of the Alcott House and Mrs. Alcott tries to keep up admirably, still running without complaining.

Suddenly, a black wolf jumps into their path.

It is clearly a part of the beast rampaging in the village. A normal wolf is only slightly bigger than a wild dog, with soft furs and sharp eyes. This cruel mockery of a wolf possesses the same black, half-solid body as its spawner, with two rows of teeth baring madly at them. Its five eyes, two on each sides and one on the forehead, glimmers with insanity, drool hanging off its open maw.

Without waiting, it attacks.

Cecilia feels her blade digs into its neck, as its claw tears her shoulder open. The momentum of its leap is countered splendidly, but her still immature strength is insufficient to fully decapitate it and halt its charge, resulting in an injury to her.

With a yell, she throws the beast aside, its corpse melting into liquid and disappears into the earth.

Strong hands hold her body upright as she falls down to a knee. Some are shouting for bandages and spirits to heal the wound, but her mind is hazy from the adrenaline and bloodlost.

She forces strength into her legs, yelling for everyone to keep moving. Without waiting for treatment, with only her palms pressing into her wound, she feels her sword arm going numb. Yet, she runs forward without stopping.

Despite her dire situation, she is happy.

' _Is this... what it feels like to protect someone?'_

* * *

If a word can describe Mordred's fight, it has to be 'superhuman'.

In one glance, she understands the monster's constitution. There is no point in hacking it to pieces or pulverizing it with blunt objects, because as long as the core remains even a tiny bit, its incredible regenerative capabilities will ensure she will be the one who runs out of gas first. As such, she is deploying a different tactic.

Streaks of light surrounds the Soil of Genesis.

As it is a devourer by nature, its power and size grows steadily the more it consumes. However, after acquiring creatures who is 'heavy' conceptually, mere Outsiders cannot compliment to its own strength anymore. It desires more, one more beast to conquer... the strongest of them all...

The dragons.

And now, there is one in front of it.

However, as with all delicious meals, the effort to catch it grows exponentially.

Every part of its body separated from it to attack is crushed as the light bulldozed its way through them. The beast's main tentacles swing madly, trying to swat the incredibly fast dragon, only to be cut to pieces in an instant as a blinding silver-crimson light tears through them.

And the dragon is only going even faster.

Sonic booms pierces the air as Mordred ricochet off the surroundings, Prana Burst continuously accelerating her body without limit. This technique is a tightrope, as even with her homunculus body, one wrong step will mean instant incapacitation, and in front of this monster, instant death.

Mordred is never one to swing her swords according to the teachings of old. Decades of war has created an effective swordsmanship for the current generation of knights, and is being polished and perfected even more by the likes of Lancelot and Tristan. The rigid but effective style is what founded the Knights of the Round Table, although each has their own personal take on it.

Mordred, on the other hand, is a literal wild child. She swings her sword according to her natural instincts, relying on her body's reflexes and agility to land the perfect killing blow. If her sword doesn't work, she won't hesitate to abandon it and use her limbs or teeth, no matter how much she loves Clarent.

Therefore, Shirou didn't teach her any combat techniques.

Her training consists only of physical conditioning and sparring.

He beat her own swordsmanship into her body. He showed her where she was weak and where she was strong, how to attack, to defend, and to retreat. With every swing of his sword, her own became stronger, sharper, and faster. She abandoned her mind's suggestion to use tactics, instead opening her heart and letting her instincts take over and be honed by Shirou's blade.

They crossed swords like that for three years non-stop, until he proclaimed her skill complete.

And then they fought for real, because she couldn't handle the truth.

She left swiftly after that, only to stay in this village, protecting Cecilia and the others.

This is one of the 'tricks' he taught her. Using Prana Burst is inherently inefficient, and even with her monstrous reserve, using it with abandon is very costly. However, the most inefficient part of it is the need for another Prana Burst to stop her instant acceleration, or to change direction.

To put it into an analogy, Prana Burst is like having a grenade stuck to one's sword, propelling it with great speed in one direction. However, to alter that motion requires a comparable force, hence the need to waste magic energy if nothing gets in the way of said motion, for example the opponent's block.

So, how to use it to evade and counter at the same time? If one's opponent is a fast one, he or she may be able to read the trajectory of the launch and simply waited to counter. One method is to use magic energy not to stop the Prana Burst, but to plant a stance to the ground on the landing.

Against this monster, though, it's useless.

Therefore, this technique is used.

If stopping is inefficient, then what one must do is not stopping at all. Instead, the energy required to change direction and velocity can be acquired from the opponent, harvesting it and adding to one's own movement to continuously accelerate without stopping.

A peerless technique, requiring split-second reflexes and body flexibility, not to mention natural talent for executing it. All which Mordred has plenty.

Like the ghost of a firefly, buzzing around leaving a trail of lights, only to remain untouchable and unreachable.

She accelerates her body to slash at one tentacle. Her sword receives a feedback from the strike, which she uses to redirect her momentum to a big tree. Not stepping onto the trunk, but merely glancing the bark, the touch redirects her towards a three-meters tall mountain ape, pulverizing it on the spot. Again, the momentum doesn't stop her, but absorb into her own motion to increase her speed.

To an outsider, the monster is engulfed inside a cage of light, so fast it is untraceable.

All this movement uses very little energy, her muscles moving as natural as possible to execute each change of direction, leaving virtually no burden to her body. Her mind, of course, is working hard to see and percieve any attacks, but she let her body to twist and bend like the wind, gracefully dodging and attacking at the same time in one breath.

More and more, the cage of light becomes smaller and smaller, carving the beast into a solid mound piece by piece.

Gradually... bit by bit...

Then, as if signalling a climax, a brilliant vermilion colored the sky.

* * *

On top of a small hill two miles from the village, the refugees stares at the radiant light which suddenly erupts from the middle of the village with bittersweet feelings.

Cecilia has explained it must be Mordred's attack, instead of the beast's, which means she has the upper hand or has attained victory already. Watching the beast which took everything from them in such a short time rouses a cheer from everyone. The men and women all wears smiles on their faces, some even crying with joy. The older children joins their parents or caretakers, while the younger ones are still resting, exhausted from the trip.

But, deep down, a heavy disappointment wears their heart. By the power of that single attack alone, their entire village is flattened to the ground, not even a single plant remaining in the radius of the blast. The monster itself has carved a significant amount of land outside the village, devouring any life and leaving a barren wasteland. Their situation for the future looks bleak.

Victory or defeat, it will be a tough winter ahead.

Cecilia rests her back onto a random tree, her shoulder already bandaged tightly over a coat. The elderly woman who treated her glared at the men when she needed to tear Cecilia's clothes off, but luckily, one of the children carried a coat as a blanket. Now, she only need to wait for news from her master.

As if reading her mind, a red meteor drops from the sky, landing gracefully in a small ring of dust.

"Master!"

Her cry is followed by a massive cheer from the villagers, causing Mordred to perk up in surprise and confusion. However, before she can react, her torso is tackled by her student, disregarding her own injury, and also by various men and women who wants to greet the hero who battled the monster.

Amidst the pats and hugs, Mordred battles her way through to the center of the mass.

She inhales a big gulp of air into her lungs, shouting, "EVERYONE!"

Having quietened down the crowd, she speaks in a normal tone. "I'd like to speak with the chief. Is he here?"

The crestfallen looks makes themselves show into the people's faces, answering her request.

"Master, he... was late to escape."

The news isn't unfamiliar to Mordred, yet despite her experience, losing a person she know is still a hard blow. She can't prevent the gritting of the teeth and the clenching of her fist from showing, a sense of self-loathing momentarily overtakes her.

Why? She tries her best, so why isn't it enough?

Is she no different than the beast she just killed? Can all she do is claim other's lives?

A soft hand on her shoulder brings her back to her senses.

"Master, you must be tired," Cecilia softly smiles. "The preparations for a camp is almost ready. Let's take a rest, shall we?"

For once, she feels outdone by her own student.

It's not a bad feeling.

* * *

The cool night wind caresses Mordred's face, swaying her golden ponytail along with it. She silently walks outside of the temporary housings granted by a local landlord, intent on leaving immediately.

Back then, when she fought that unknown monster, she was certain. Its demeanor when aiming for her confirms her earlier suspicion, and its attack was certainly meaningful. It only came after sniffing her scent, its apetite for rare blood from the dragons lured it into the village.

The village was destroyed because of her.

They all died because of her.

If she wasn't so indecisive in leaving when she was able to, all of this wouldn't have happened. If she rejected Cecilia's offer for breakfast that morning, they would all be still alive and happy. If only she decided against taking Cecilia as her student, she would be long gone by now, avoiding the calamity which befell the village.

Everything was gone because of her.

Therefore, this decision to leave is already long overdue.

It was only fortunate for the villagers that Mrs. Alcott still has her husband's contacts. After scouring around for a few days, starving and dehydrated, they arrived at this small municipality of several villages that formed a small town. It's one of the new projects from the kingdom, aiming to ease governing and provide better supply route for the town and the army. The major was revealed to be Mr. Alcott's former comrade-in-arms, and gracefully sheltered them, provided they also contribute to the town's production and industry after everything settles down.

Finally, after the hectic week, the children can sleep soundly again.

She turns around, casting one final gaze at the people she will soon left behind.

The town is better-equipped and better-built than the village. The roads are properly maintained and flattened, wide enough to accommodate two carriages side-by-side with room to spare for pedestrians. At night, numerous torches lights up in several yards interval, eliminating the suffocating darkness the village used to live in. Sounds of night activity is much louder here, with various simple entertainment are set up to allow the people to enjoy the night, relieving them of stress from the day's work.

It's not a scene in which someone like her is welcome.

Her beloved teacher once said the Moonlit World is best kept under the shroud of darkness, never to see the light of the masses. Only now can she fathom his words back then, after the villagers' blood bathed her heart.

Fighting back the tears, she walks away.

Or... not.

Long, wavy golden hair similar in shade to her own. A height taller than her, with a body also more mature. A blue lacy headband keeps the hair in check, accompanied with the smile she has already familiar with. The woman lugs a big rucksack on her bag, so big it's almost comical in size.

Cecilia pouts at her. "Leaving without me, Master? You're cruel!"

Mordred can't even bring herself to stare that adoring eyes. Instead, she decides to ignore her student, walking pass her alongside the road to another province. However, a pair of hands circle around her waist, rooting her in place.

"Don't, Cecilia," she pleads. "Just... forget about me."

"I refuse. I am your best student, and I intend to keep it that way."

"You only say that because you know nothing!"

Mordred's hysteria surprises Cecilia, leading her to release her grip. Now face to face, she can see the traces of tears on the corner of Mordred's eyes, the twin green orbs still showing the same fear as the first time she saw them.

The knight is still afraid of herself.

"Everything... was because of me." Mordred speaks painfully, "I was the one... at fault. It appeared because it was chasing me! All of them dead, because I didn't have the guts to leave!"

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she continues, "I don't deserve being near all of you. If you follow me, you'll meet the same fate, Cecilia. Don't waste your life with me."

"Why not?"

"You're too stubborn!" Mordred berates. She places her hand on the hilt of her sword. "Let me make this clear: if you step forward, I'll beat you and send you back!"

Without hesitation, Cecilia steps forward.

"Ceci-"

A loud clash sounds.

Mordred widens her eyes as Clarent's sheath is blocked by Cecilia's training sword. It's clearly battered after the encounter with the monster's minions, and both her hands are shaking with exertion to block Mordred's one-handed slash, but her student holds firm.

Cecilia stares at her master, her eyes as sharp as steel.

"You think... I don't know all of that?!"

With a grunt, she swings her sword, batting aside the sheath.

Both of them lower their weapons, giving Cecilia an opportunity to talk.

"That day, I saw Master," she begins. "I saw how you fight, how you took it head-on and blasted it to pieces. However, most importantly..."

Once more, she steps forward, putting herself in a position unable to swing her sword.

"I saw your eyes, Master. Those weren't the eyes of a murderer!"

She grabs Mordred's shoulder, bringing her closer.

"The very first time I met you, I noticed your fear. You were afraid that you would only bring harm to those close to you, be it because who you were or your own strength. I don't know your past, Master, and I won't ask, but... living like that, isn't it painful?" Cecilia's voice is desperate.

"I wanted power... so that no one will ever has that look again in front of me!"

Cecilia falls silent after saying that, tears falling from her eyes.

"Master has saved all of us... so, at the very least... you can rely on me as well...!"

A callused palm caresses her cheek, wiping her tears away.

A quiet voice replies to her plea.

"You... are too stubborn sometimes."

"Yes, Master."

"You may die, with your dream trampled over. Is that alright?"

"Yes, Master."

"I am not what or who you imagine at all, dear Cecilia. I am a monster, no different than that beast before."

"If so, then I will slay you, Master."

A sad laugh permeates the night air.

"Then, I'm counting on you, my student." One more palm wipes her other cheek off the tears. "Stay by my side, then."

"Yes, Master!"

* * *

Inside a modest inn in the middle of the town, a single man sits down all by himself.

If one looks closely, his bearing isn't one of the local farmers or artisans. They all have a similar disposition of roughness, despite their differing personalities and habits, one which this man doesn't possess. Instead, he seems... clean, prim and proper, like those nobles in the big cities and castle towns. Of course, sitting there, he still manages to make himself blend in, just barely, and so the other occupants don't pay much attention to him.

Soon after, a couple of men step inside and slide on the chairs in the other corner. Both of them orders each a drink, the type unseen by the man, but it doesn't matter. Their drinks come by and they finish it, before leaving.

The man exits the door just after them, slightly apart to avoid people grouping them together.

All three men go their separate ways, likely to different inns they rented.

However, the innkeepers will report they have not seen them that night.

On the outskirts of town, the three of them are joined by several others, so they numbered ten in total.

"My Lord, there is no new information regarding the phenomena from last month, or the two that's missing."

"I see," Gawain nods.

He look around to hsis other subordinates, and none of them reported anything different.

Regarding the phenomena they are talking about, he feels the timing is too perfect for it to be a coincidence or of no relation to the case Merlin was reporting.

A fortnight ago, a report came of a village destroyed to the ground. The kingdom has a disaster relief group, which is small, but they mainly serve to collect information regarding disaster zones and human relocation, though with some charity events to increase morale among the masses as well. This information came from them, saying that the victims has all evacuated to a nearby town, where they were hosted by the mayor.

Gawain's group didn't go straight to the former village site, but instead went to the town to conduct interviews and collect more information regarding what actually happened. A disaster like that... Who stopped it? How? When and why it was triggered? There are too many questions, more than the relief group could collect with their limited manpower.

From what their investigation has gathered over the last few days, the disaster could only be attribute to a rogue monster attack. They planned on heading straight to the former village site to collect evidences tonight, providin Merlin with something to identify the beast the villagers described.

Additionally, the homunculus was here.

A girl who stood out as much as her, and if she really looked like how the villagers described, there was no doubt she was born from His Majesty's blood.

Of course, all of this is only circumstantial at best. Before they can collect more definitive evidence, all this cannot be reported back to the King as it is.

A collection of trots catches Gawain's attention, shifting it to a number of horses his subordinates have secured.

Aside from the homunculus, one other suspect is the girl who is her student, Cecilia. Why did the two of them leave without anyone's knowledge? Were they running from something? Or, sinisterly, were they responsible for the seemingly sudden attack? The caretaker of the orphaned children seemed adamant this wasn't the case, that she was a good judge of people. She claimed both of them were good people, even if she only knew the homunculus for a few weeks, but Cecilia has been in her care since she was a toddler. Faced with such overwhelming testimony, added by the rest of the villagers, Gawain couldn't really say anything regarding his suspicions.

' _Ah, there's no use mulling it over now. Time to leave.'_

Giving a signal to everyone present, he mounts his horse and gallops away, together towards the former village.

* * *

"My God..."

Gawain's men mutter as they approach the barren wasteland where a village once stood.

These are men who have stood in the middle of many battles, enduring various hardships from the enemies and nature. They have accompanied their lord, Sir Gawain, to many victories and peacekeeping missions, which is why they are chosen for this investigation as several of the most-trusted.

However, never once in their lives have they seen such devastation.

A large area, centered on what narth itself. The condition on the perimeter of the crater is no better, either. The trees are withered and burnt, however, those aren't direct burns from a flame.

No, they are dried inside out by an intense heat, likely the aftermath of the impact responsible for the crater. All of them, including Gawain, wondered what on earth is capable to produce such calamity.

"S-Sir! Over there!"

Turning his head quickly at his subordinate's alarmed response, Gawain focuses his eyes at the area said person is pointing.

A man is standing there, roughly in the center of the wasteland.

"Prepare your swords."

Seeing such a unique spectacle, there is no way they won't be alarmed.

They approach on foot, cautiously. That man is clearly not normal, and they have to be careful as to not throw away their lives carelessly.

Looking closer, the abnormality grows.

The man is lean and well-built, slightly taller than Gawain himself. His movements are completely smooth and without delay, signifying his skills as a warrior. Truth be told, he himself still hasn't attained such mastery over his body, and perhaps only Tristan and Lancelot are able to do so.

His skin has a different tone than what he has seen, marking him as a foreigner; its color is quite fair, but there's a certain yellow tint to it. His hair, though, is a flaming red, a color which is certainly unnatural. He has seen his share of redheads, but none of them has hair which blaze in the color like his.

The man turns around to look at them, and they are rooted right on the spot.

His eyes are shining with a color of diamonds' white.

A beat later, as they blink, and the glint is gone, now replaced with soft amber eyes. A completely normal one, like all the people Gawain has ever met.

No, looking at the bigger picture, the man's air of unnaturality disappeared like mist at noon. His hair is still red, but only the shade of deep copper, which is uncommon but not rare. The air around him doesn't bristle with power like before, of which shamefully causes Gawain and his men a bit of a fright, but now it feels like the air of an approachable man.

It is as if his previous appearance is just an illusion.

However, even with them closing with hands on swords, the man never stopped moving. He reaches to his toolkit on the ground, collecting samples of soil, marking several points with what seems to be yellow wooden cones, sketching on a paper, and other duties they can't fully comprehend.

Gawain decides a few steps later they have approached close enough, and signals for his team to halt while he does the talking.

"Good day, Sir!" Gawain lightly shouted, hoping to elicit some friendly response in return.

"Ah, yes, please wait a moment," the man's voice replies nonchalantly, ignoring the increasing agitation of Gawain's men at the rudeness.

After a few minutes, the man finally turns around to face Gawain properly. Even after the previous transformation, the knight still has to restrain his body to step backwards, such is the man's heavy presence. It's not one which is regal like a king, or the wild madness of a majestic beast, but simply... something he can't really put his finger on. The weight pressing down his shoulders is undoubtedly that of a man, but at the same time, his instincts are screaming at him the man he's facing is anything but.

Mustering his guts, Gawain steps forward to meet his opposition.

"Sir, this place is claimed to be a disaster zone by the kingdom, which means unauthorized people are forbidden to enter. Please kindly remove yourself from the premises as we investigate."

His polite tone is also underlaid by a sternness of a noble, leaving no room for negotiation. Standing this close to the man, Gawain is certain his men is no match for him, and therefore only diplomacy will work the most effectively in this situation. There is no reason to make this a complete bloodbath, no matter if he can win against Gawain or not.

Preparing for a tense discussion, Gawain waves at his subordinates to relax and let their grip falls from their swords.

"Ah, alright."

"Sir, ple- H-Huh?!" Gawain can only muster a dumbfounded reaction.

"My work here is done, anyway. I shall stay out of your way, Sir Gawain."

"A-Ah, thank you for your cooperation." Flustered, Gawain motions to his men to start their usual routine for investigating disaster scenes in this level.

He turns to survey the area, and the devastation is even more apparent this close. Really, what sort of monster was able to-

' _Hang on!'_

Rapidly, the knight turns around.

The man has disappeared without a trace.

* * *

The earth slips through my clenched fist, along with my regrets.

Almost. Just one step too late, like always.

If only I was faster, then I could've reached her.

Instead, I'm stuck investigating her next whereabouts through what remains of her battle.

Really, that Mordred... I'll properly scold her next time.

The thought propels my mind back towards the scene when we last parted. It wasn't pretty, for sure, and I think it left a wound inside her heart after I let her know the truth. And, to be honest, it wounded my heart as well.

It was just a simple question. I gave her a simple answer.

In hindsight, my carelessness and insensitivity in regard of the answer hurt her, so much so she left me.

She asked for the truth regarding her birth, and why on earth did I care for her.

I told her everything, not leaving a single detail out.

I spoke of how her mother created, designed, and planned for her to be the King's assassin, of how she was supposed to bring chaos and destruction to the Kingdom, as Morgan's last tool of revenge. I told her how I was created and born, and how I planned to stop Morgan from executing her plan. I told her how in the aftermath, I discovered her inside the magus's Workshop, lying dormant. I told her how I decided against eliminating her, and how I planned to reverse her own destiny.

I told her why I taught her everything I know. I told her how I wanted her to fight alongside me, as a savior to the Kingdom, not its destroyer.

I wished for her to accept and embrace her new role, just as easily and eagerly as myself.

How I was wrong.

It's getting really annoying how often I didn't learn from past mistakes. This sort of thing had happened a few times already, and yet, I never learned how sometimes modesty, not honesty, was better in handling these sort of conversation. I let my good conscience override my judgment, and my desire to be truthful and accommodating had backfired on me.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

Her expression started as a form of surprise, before quickly morphing into anger.

How could she not? Even before she was born, before she gained her first consciousness in the world, two people already used her, planned for her to be their tools to achieve their respective dreams. Her mother and I were just fakes... _counterfeits_ , which took advantage of her and simply treated her like a simple weapon to point at someone else. She accused me of all that, and that I would just simply discard her after I was finished like garbage to the side of the road.

I wanted to save her from the cruel fate some higher powers had destined her to receive. I watched how her ideals was smashed and broken, how her heart turned from a loving daughter and knight to a murderous, rebellious traitor. I watched how her face twisted in despair as her own father stabbed her in the abdomen and killed her.

I watched how a father and daughter slaughtered each other, along with their pain, suffering, and regrets.

I jumped at the chance to change this fate. I gave her everything she could ever wish for: a family, swordsmanship, civil lessons, war stratagems, and many more. I wished for her to be saved, to at least allow her to experience true happiness in her life.

In the end, a 'created' happiness was also a fake one.

I did all that because I was afraid to follow in the steps of my predecessor. I knew the pain of having my own ideals disintegrated. I know the despair when it betrayed me, even when I never betrayed it. I tried to prevent Mordred from experiencing the same painful blow, even if I could never get the credit I deserved.

That's fine.

As long as she's saved, it's fine.

I tried explained my reasons, but she never believed me in her fury.

Then she slapped me, before she turned around and left in tears.

Even now, as I picture the scene, the stinging pain in my cheek can still be felt clearly, as if someone stabs me in the heart and twists it a hundred different ways.

Don't take me wrong, but someone had actually done so, so I know the feeling.

I close my eyes to refocus myself to the task at hand.

As my eyes open, the view around me changes.

No longer is the world bathed in its natural colors, forming clean, precise lines and contours, but they are replaced by a myriad of softly glowing shapes, shining with different tones and intensity from each other. The shapes are all small and detailed, allowing me access to their history and accumulated experience, along with their composition and make-up. The devastated wasteland around me turns to a playful garden of colors, floating and moving along with time and space to create a beautiful dance of magic energy .

The object which glows the most is the fiery crimson of Mordred's magic energy , likely unleashed by her Prana Burst and sword technique, finished with a dose of Clarent. The brilliant vermilion carves beautiful wide strokes on the blank canvas, as if immortalizing every single slash and steps she did. Its color is even more dazzling than the last time he saw it, proving her increased strength and her unyielding dedication to training.

The next thing which is of importance is the remains of black, sticky, and foul magic energy . With prior analysis with his field tools, he suspected it's a part of the Soil of Genesis, and a naturally occurring one at that. Since it's a Magecraft from the Age of Gods, I have some trouble reading its history, but by virtue of inductive reasoning compiled from the rest of the evidences, I have drawn a pretty clear picture how it's born and why it moves to destroy this village.

If my theory is correct, and judging by how hard my teeth is clenched in anger, Nimue has really gone a step too far.

Fortunately, it seems my dear student has no trouble in dealing with this monster. I let a proud smile escape from my lips as I recognize the techniques she used, which was taught by me. Perhaps a peaceful reconciliation isn't such a pipe dream anymore?

Regardless, I have all the clues I need to point me to her direction. There's something important I need to discuss with her, other than patching up our relationship, so I lightly greet a team of knights who just comes to do their own investigations, lead by the famous Gawain. I'm tempted to fork some other information from them, but this takes priority.

I leave the scene, a new determination burning in my heart.

I'll save Mordred, whether she approves or it or not. Even if she hates me, even if she condemns me in the end, I'll still do it. In order to prevent her from shedding those lonely tears, I'll save her, no matter what.

This doomed kingdom... I'll save it.

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **P**

 **Pure Eyes of Mystic Perception**

 **A mutation in the Magic Circuits around the eyes, this ability allows the user to perceive the workings of the World around them. How much the user sees vary according to his or her skills and experience, as this type of Pure Eyes is a rare, evolving one. There are a number of permutations regarding the development of this Pure Eyes, some are listed below.**

 **· Material: includes the physical changes exerted to the World, for example, the laws of phsyics, chemistry, and biology**

 **· Ethereal: includes the distortion of phenomena caused by Magecraft or Magic**

 **· Spatial: includes the inner workings and relationship between all forces in the World and the rest of the universe, for example: Ultimate Ones, Gods, and Ether Liners**

 **Note: usage and effects will differ from user to user, depending on personal experiences and preferences.**


	5. Room of Animi

**Wow, never expected it to go this good, or this far. Thank you all for the support!**

 **I noticed how most of you still have plenty of questions, which was a deliberate situation. You know, pop in a mystery here and there to keep you guys guessing! This is another continuation of the previous chapter, and some more elaboration on the setting. I know the story is moving a bit slowly, perhaps slower than my liking, but I need the time to build up the characterization and the background.**

 **Also, I just got a new job, so the releases will be slightly slower, since the energy I use to write has been lowered so far by it. It's quite a fun one, but the usual gusto just isn't there to write. Sorry.**

 **Well, to keep you guys entertained, here's a quiz: From which LN did I adapted Mordred's technique in the previous chapter? Hint: Look at the chapter title.**

 **The winner gets a free spoiler!**

 **Have fun!**

 **Disclaimer: I'm making money, just not from this story, alright?**

* * *

It was a beautiful summer's day.

'Was', as in, right now it isn't.

The rain batters down hard with the wind howling alongside it. Sparse explosions of thunder ring in the distance, bringing even dourer mood to the small encampment.

As the junior knights huddle together drinking warm soup, the entrance flap of their main tent suddenly swings open.

Gawain turns to look, as two of his subordinates step in, carrying what seems to be a large mechanical contraption. It doesn't look that heavy, just bulky in volume, and the rest of his men hurry to finish their meal and clear some space for the item.

Up close, the device looks like an amalgamation of metallic parts, put together to look like a chalet girl's hand basket. An array of gears and levers on the inside of it look far too delicate for the imperial blacksmith's skills, and as such it is obvious who the maker is.

As soon as the device is set in place, Gawain taps Galatine's hilt on the 'handle' at the top.

It whirs into life in a grotesque, unnatural noise, before the space between the 'handle' and the 'base' shines with an eerie glow.

An image soon forms, that of a familiar white hair and playful expression.

Merlin's glee soon waters down as he surveys the expressions of the knights on the other side of the floating screen.

He sighs, before dejectedly saying, "Report, please."

Gawain's subordinates can't even muster the will to glare at the magus for his brashness at their commander. Said commander immediately replies in a professional, concise way.

"The village ground is burnt to cinders, the illustrations are already being delivered by your familiar. The area is a total wasteland, and in most of the crater, the ground has become glass from an intense heat. The heat is strong enough to wither most of the vegetation outside the perimeter of the crater. The samples are also inside the package sent to you.

"There were some markings of battle even in said perimeter, mainly some smaller craters, crushed trees, and shattered walls. These clues are too odd; we can't make sense of them. Perhaps later Sir Merlin can observe them yourself.

"The monster reported has no body parts remaining, merely some black organic materials, also included in the evidence package. The testimony from the villagers state the monster is large, about thirty feet high, and the two deserters defeated it. They claimed they saw a red light piercing the sky from the center of the village, and after that the monster was killed.

"Regarding the two runaways, the villagers' opinions of them are positive. I don't think I can coerce anymore useful information from them without a hypnosis expert in my side, so it's currently a dead end. You have received the report on the supposed homunculus, Sir Merlin, so what do you think? Our investigation can only uncover this much."

"Hmm..." Merlin hums offhandedly, before asking again, "Anything else? Just something minor can lead to a big discovery, so don't miss anything."

"Ah!"

Gawain gasps. How can he forget _that man_?

"Actually..." he begins, "there's someone we met..."

* * *

Cecilia glares at the men in front of her, sword drawn and ready.

"Miss... kukuku... Don't struggle too much, we promise it won't hurt... heheheh..."

' _Bastards...'_

Cecilia grits her teeth, bracing herself to protect her limp master behind her.

' _Right... assess the situation first. I'm still on horseback, so I have a slight advantage... But if they gang me up, my horsemanship isn't good enough to avoid being dismounted!'_

At this critical moment, Cecilia decides on her action.

Faking a sigh, she dismounts slowly on her own.

The hideous, filthy men sneers and laughs at the seemingly easy surrender, and casually walk forward. However, their lecherous eyes still warily observes her sword, so she slowly lowers it to avoid making any trouble.

Impatient at the prospect of two young, beautiful maidens serving them, a few of them hasten their steps.

' _Three in front, two at the back. The leader is... no matter. I have to be quick.'_

"Now, now... isn't this simple? Kukuku, I'll make sure to make it enjoyable... for this obedient little bitch of mine-"

The sword on the ground flies, impaling the leader by the throat.

His henchmen is surprised, and immediately draw their weapons.

No, they try, but fail.

Using the momentum of her kick of the sword, Cecilia bends her body backwards and stabs one of them in the neck with a concealed dagger. The other two swings their sabres at her face, but she has already ducked down, tucking her master low and swiping their legs with her dagger.

Before she can take advantage of their fall, a kick roars straight towards her face. She manages to block it with her left arm, but the force is such that her lowered stance breaks and her arm smacks into her own face, knocking her back. The only man left standing is shouting obscenities at her, running with a wicked club to smash her head.

As he steps in to swing the club, she forcibly locks her legs with his, tumbling him down right into her dagger. It smoothly goes into his neck, instantly killing him.

Grunting, she pushes the corpse away, only to receive a full-blown straight to her face.

Her head feels like it impacted something hard, and her conciousness is fading. She can feel her nose bent out of shape, and two sets of heavy footprints approches her. As she tries to open her eyes, two disgusting, livid faces fill her vision.

One of them has their fingers clamped onto her throat.

At the sudden loss of air, Cecilia struggles, stabbing her dagger into the man's arm. He probably shouts, as her ear isn't really functioning with the ringing inside her head. A heavy thud impacts her stomach, and it feels like her body lifts into the air slightly before slamming to the ground.

"Ah... argh...!"

Cecilia tries to cough air into her lungs, but her tongue only tastes the iron in her blood. Breathing feels painful, and her stomach hurts like hell.

Her hair is yanked, and she let out an involuntary scream.

"Bitch! I'll fucking kill you!" The man growls loudly.

She sees him lifting his sabre, and the flash of silver as it swings down.

...

Her body falls down to the ground.

...

' _Am I... dead?'_

No, she's not.

Slowly, she opens her eyes, not knowing when she has shut them before.

An arm gently lifts her upper body, allowing her to see her savior.

It's a man.

With worried eyes, he asks several questions to her, probably pertaining to her injuries, but her hearing still hasn't returned from its damaged state. His face can be considered as 'handsome', but not so otherworldly that he stands out; 'rugged' is what she can call him. Judging from the arm supporting her, he's quite well-built. He has copper-red hair paired with amber eyes; again, not that uncommon.

It's all she can analyze as her head is struck by a severe dizziness, causing her consciousness to dim into pure black.

* * *

The inn is simple, but well-built.

Located near the outskirts of Cumbria, it's a popular choice for travelers and merchants who desire some shut-eye time without spending too much money. That said, this area has plenty of inns and shophouses to choose from, since the greater influx of trade after King Arthur took the throne.

I simply choose it on a whim, after a quick scan with my Eyes across the city.

It's a habit I created every time I visit a new place. It helps me to determine the layout, just in case of emergencies, as well as the notable places to gather for the people. It also serves to gain a glimpse of the local atmosphere; are the locals happy, anxious or sad? These minute information are vital in my movements across the Kingdom.

However, too much information is also a dangerous notion, overloading a limited amount of processing space for unnecessary things. Therefore, I learned how to filter important information long ago, with extra scouting always in play for additional data the next day. These procedures have become a habit, even during an escort for two beautiful women into this rowdy city, one unconscious and perhaps the woman I care most about in the entire Kingdom.

This inn isn't entirely chosen on a whim, in a sense that I simply pick it because of its strategic location. It's in the center of the commerce district, allowing my Reinforced ears to pick up on sensitive information from backstreet dealings around me, as well as notifying any potentially dangerous individuals or groups.

As we lay Mordred carefully on the bed, I speak to the other woman, Cecilia. Apparently, she's Mordred's self-appointed apprentice, a fact which amuses me.

I start my analysis of Mordred's body, just a rough one without the use of my Eyes. I still haven't decided whether to let Cecilia into the world of Magecraft yet, so I'm playing it close to the chest. The next few days will be used for the analysis for both of them: Mordred regarding her condition and Cecilia for her value, but now I'm strictly focused on my unconscious student.

"Miss Cecilia," I say, "tell me what happened in an organized manner, okay? So we both can properly analyze the clues."

Taking a deep breath, she complies.

"We were... traveling," Cecilia speaks some half-truth, one I don't miss. I understand she can't really admit both she and Mordred ran away from their previous holdings, not to a stranger like me. Though, I wonder how long will it take for Mordred to be healed and reveal my identity?

"Suddenly, my master said she wasn't feeling well, so we leased back one of the horse and have her ride with me to conserve energy."

I hum. "Hmm... 'master', you say? You're her apprentice?"

"A-Ah, yes" she stumbles her words. "Despite looking like this, she's strong, you know? Don't mess with her, kind sir." She says the last words with a smile.

I motion for her to continue.

"Well, my master and I were riding, heading south... Suddenly, her condition worsened, and she started to develop this severe fever and painful breaths. Before I could reach a doctor, those bastards showed up," she hisses venom through her words.

"I see, I see." I nod, pretending to be a good listener. "Why are you heading south? Are you going to the capital?"

"Hmm... I'm not sure myself. My master decided it, and her explanation wasn't really the best, so I'm not clear on that subject."

I glance at the prone form of Mordred, her skin flush with cold sweat. Her condition has stabilized, but it is far from decent.

"Dear sir, are you a doctor?"

I turn my gaze towards her. "Ah, no, no. I'm medically trained, but the little tidbits I learned is sometimes very useful."

Cecilia narrows her eyes in suspicion, but decides to let it slip. She has her doubts regarding my claim, since my methods are... unusual, to say the least.

She has kicked up a fuss when I suddenly ripped Mordred's clothes off, revealing her bare body to me, and pierced her body with several thin needles. The hostile situation was calmed down when I casually dodged all her attacks while explaining the benefits of acupuncture. It's not a method ever seen in these lands, so her confused reaction to it was normal, if slightly lethal.

That said, with her injured body, it's already impossible for her to attack me for real. Not that it'd connect any better if she's healthy, anyway. It's just a matter of basic courtesy, which she ignored for her master's perceived honor.

Slowly, carefully, I remove the needles from her body before soaking them in a vat of warm water. I hear a gasp of horror from my side, as the water immediately turns black and murky. I signal her to replace the water from the restaurant downstairs in a hurry.

As soon as the door closes, I heave a sigh of relief.

Acupuncture won't really do anything good to Mordred. The black blood is really the filth and bile accumulating inside her body, but the real cause is something else. This method was more of a show, to implement the image of 'Shirou the Weird Doctor' to Cecilia's mind, and as a result, dampened her curiosity regarding the Magecraft I've done discreetly. Of course, being a Magic User, spiritual healing methods are beyond me without the use of my more esoteric Noble Phantasms, but it never hurts to try.

First, let's analyze the problem properly.

"Trace on."

Basic composition analysis... Complete.  
Thaumaturgy composition analysis... Complete.  
Spirit composition analysis... Complete.  
Searching Akashic Records... Match found.

After a few minutes, I figure out her problem.

Immediately, however, I'm overwhelmed by an urge to kill someone.

Taking a deep breath to collect myself, I Trace Clarent as well, for correlation purposes. My true specialty is in swords, after all. I've practiced using my Eyes on living beings and inanimate objects other than a sword or other bladed weapons, and after a few months, I managed to reach the same detail as I'd have against a blade. It took several times longer than blades, though.

The data I gather only served to back my fears.

The reason behind her condition is simple: her Origin is in chaos, due to another one fighting it for dominance.

I see it all. Her travels after she left me, her encounter with the dragon Pæga, his death and subsequent passing of power, and her latest adventures with Cecilia are all recorded inside her blade and Akasha. However, records don't tell the whole story from Mordred's own point of view, merely stating them in third person, so now I'm left stunned on how to properly approach this issue through Mordred's eyes.

She... was scared.

After all those years floating in the tub, alone, waiting to be born, for the very first time in several years, she was truly alone. Every time she slept, the darkness of Pæga's Origin enveloped her, threatening to overcome and drown her in his own image. She fought back, as always, and fought back hard, and every single time she managed to scrape through with victory. Thus, she was able to wake up every morning still being herself.

But for how long? How long until her strength waned, her resolution crumbled? Against an opponent who knew no rest, no pain, her soul received countless battering and assaults, edging her closer and closer to despair every night when she slept, and every day when she awoke.

Her desire to prove me wrong, that she wasn't just my tool to use, has led her to chase strength with that dragon, leaving her in this state. She wanted to deny the destiny laid out in front of her to walk, instead, she carved her own path, uncaring of the dangers.

It's all because of me and my loose mouth.

Now, she's laying down before me, facing her own problems alone.

Not if I can help it. Not this time.

This time, I won't abandon her.

So, back to the main problem at hand.

Mordred's Origin is, perhaps ironically and most fittingly, 'Revolution'. It has been designed to awaken from the moment she gained consciousness by Morgan, in order to mold her to the perfect piece to destroy the country. Most people will relate, as most revolutions happen during times of chaos and the current ruler is dethroned. Once a person is awakened to his or her Origin, it's almost impossible to stray from it.

However, no one ever said bending it to my will is impossible.

'Revolution' always has a negative connotation to its meaning. 'Coup', 'insurgency', 'mutiny', and 'rebellion' are but few of those meanings. However, 'Revolution' can also mean 'innovation', 'transformation', and 'metamorphosis', all in a positive way. I taught her along the lines of the latter, birthing the perfect knight her previous self so single-mindedly chased for her father's approval.

My wish is for her to be able to change the Kingdom for the better, not unearth it from its roots.

Alongside that line is Pæga's Origin, 'Liberation'.

In literal terms, the word 'Liberation' has various connotations, most of them neutral- or positive-oriented. Words like 'abolition' and 'salvation' are amongst its other meanings, and generally, it's not a direct opposite to Mordred's Origin. However, the main problem is 'Liberation' tries to 'unshackle' or 'unchain' Mordred's 'Revolution', focusing on her darker sides. In effect, what Mordred was always fighting against wasn't Pæga himself, but her own hidden self, unknown to me or her or anyone, who possesses the moniker 'Knight of Treachery'.

Furthermore, since Pæga was a Phantasmal Species who've attained the rank 'Millennium', making him equal to those Divine Beasts, was far stronger than her. Mordred is a beautifully-crafted homunculus, as close to perfection as a magus could get, and with my input and training, has far surpassed her former self who has now disappeared from the history books. Yet, compared to Pæga, her Origin is a mere seed facing against a mighty tree.

Such is the difference between dwellers from the Inside of the World and the Outside. I'm a special exception rather than the norm, being one of Alaya's agents, so I can't be used as a measuring stick.

I can't do anything.

If the problem is physical, it's still within my powers to interfere. However, this... this battle she had, and is having now, has stepped into the realm of the soul and spirit. My junior of a Heroic Vessel is more suited to deal with this problem than me, but there's no way I can rely on him, or anyone else, for that matter. Even the most skillful healer in Spiritual Surgery, like the Kotomine Family in the future, will be hard-pressed to cure her condition, because it can only be resolved by one way only.

Let Mordred accept her dark side. That's all.

I understand her fear and worry completely. There, deep in the recesses of her mind, lay dormant someone who's the antithesis of all she believes in... and that someone is none other than herself. Accepting this part of her is tantamount of eating her own sword, and the risk of the contradiction tearing her apart is huge.

However, I see no other way. The highest authority in Magecraft right now is Merlin, and peeking through his Records using my Eyes, he's not any help at all. Maybe... if I can go to the Inside...

I smack my forehead. How can I miss something so obvious?

Among my grief and anger for my uselessness, I have come up with a simple solution.

It's not a solution which can be performed now, so all I can do is a temporary stopgap measure, just to keep her mental state from crumbling.

Gently, I place a palm over her forehead, while another slid down towards her navel.

I knead my magic energy .

Slowly, slowly...

After centuries' worth of practice, I'm quite confident of my magic energy control. Gingerly, as if I'm carving a statue from eggshells, I let it seep into her body, energizing her Magic Cores without overloading them. This is standard technique for most magi, but because of my Origin and Element being so volatile, the degree of difficulty is much higher for me. Each of her Cores is enormous, far more powerful than her father's, engineered to produce the maximum output of magic energy as possible, so kick-starting them into a gentle purr is as hard and delicate as trying to turn on a factory's generators with a glass handle.

Throughout her pale and smooth skin, lines of red start to glow. Unlike my own, which is angularly shaped to resemble lines of blades interlocking with each other, her Core Lines form smooth, undulating lines, each thicker than a magus's. The soft glow used to entrance me every time I see it, much to Mordred's embarrassment, but such feelings are the farthest from my mind.

However, her shy expression last time was cute too, so...

Now, I start the second phase of my treatment.

As a result of her struggles, Mordred's magic energy flow is a mess. Usually, it flows like a strong, uninterrupted torrent, controlled by a series of powerful dams and gates for greater control. Now, the flow is erratic, the dams and gates malfunctioning here and there, sometimes letting the irregular flow to pass, sometimes not. Circulating my own magic energy , after some modifications from me, inside her serves to smoothen the flow, at least until she gets it under control for herself.

Normally, ingesting another person's magic energy into someone's body is tantamount to ingesting poison. However, because we've built a bridge for our magic energy to pass through before, during our... more intimate moments, it's not a big issue. Clouds of multicolored magic energy begin to dance around our bodies, as I concentrate on the job at hand. The lightshow casts plenty of shadows across the room, and among them I hear a gasp from a woman, perhaps Cecilia's.

I pay it no attention, since a moment of distraction can be fatal to both of us in this situation. I persist for a few more minutes, smoothing out some more minor irregularities, before I stop my magic energy and inhaled a big gulp of air.

As I turn around, I notice the blonde girl standing dumbfounded in front of the door. Fortunately, the vat of new hot water in her hands doesn't drop and spill to the floor, so I step forward to take it from her before it does, placing it near Mordred's head, then covering her nude body.

"Wipe her sweat off once every few minutes with this water," I tell her carefully, making sure she understands my instructions. "For now, this is enough. I'll rest in the room next door."

Without waiting for a reply, I step out of the room.

* * *

I'm inside a space of white.

No, rather than calling it white, its actual color is a mixture of light grey and faint blue, mixing together to form white afterimages which I'm used to. Therefore, I always call it 'white'. Around me, translucent polygons of various shapes and sizes floats about lazily, mimicking shards of glass... or memories forgotten. Sometimes, they float so close I can almost feel them touching my skin, but as I move, they always go so far away, untouchable by anyone.

I'm half-standing, half-flying inside this room, mainly because I can't see or feel the floor. It's quite a familiar visage, one I'm always felt bittersweet. First, the good thing being summoned here is I may be able to receive help or pointers regarding my life and mission. Second, the bad thing being summoned here is it means something horrible is about to happen, and I'm being briefed and prepared for it.

The being doing the talking will be my creator, or my 'mother', if I can call it that.

No, not 'it'. 'She'... yes, that's good. Don't want her to smack me with a dose of reality again.

To be fair, our relationship these past few centuries has been getting closer and closer from the stiff, professional one we had earlier. It may even have a resemblance to an actual mother-son relationship, not that both of us have any knowledge regarding it. Most of our personality ticks are all glimpsed and copied from the Akashic Records, in order for us to perform to the best we can, and achieve our goals.

That is, to save people.

Thus, recently, she's been taking on a female form, not quite human, but humanoid enough for me to relate to her current form as a comrade. She claimed it 'promoted cooperation' between her and the rest of us Heroic Vessels, and has a psychologically 'soothing' and 'relaxing' effect. Whether it's true or not is still a debate between us Vessels, and some of us has even begun to joke about it.

Carefully, of course. She has ears everywhere.

Looking at her straight on like this, it has always fascinates me how her face is not one fixed form, but an ever-changing one. Not just her face, but also her figure changes constantly, shifting to accommodate her interlocutors according to their preferences. It's almost a guarantee for a single human to be so entranced by her figure, or rather, 'its' figure, for she can also assume a male form against female beings.

To me, she's of fair height and figure, with long straight hair rising and dropping incessantly, and a gentle face. It's a logic I can't quite figure out, regarding his attachment to this form; perhaps it belongs to an unknown mother or relative? Or is it my personal fetish? Unlikely, since I find Mordred and Cecilia equally attractive, and both of them has contrasting looks and figures. The slim Mordred and the curvy Cecilia caters to different tastes from men, I understand.

One thing is for certain: I have never met anyone who looks like this, ever.

Summoned to this room again... she must've something important to say, since she never lets me in more than thrice in a single lifetime. And yet, in this last six months, I've had this discussion twice already... something that's only happened once before, back in Mesopotamia...

However, here, in a shady yet comfortable inn, as I lay down on the bed to get some sleep, my consciousness is propelled to this place.

' _More work... ugh...'_

"How lazy you have become, my child."

' _Please stop reading my mind.'_

"It will be ineffective."

' _Tsk, I understand.'_

Cutting straight to the point, the intensity of her gaze rises as her ethereal body seemingly shines brighter. Of course, it's but an illusion.

"The Black Knight will fall ever deeper, into the chasm of betrayal. The Queen soon follows suit, jumping after her sweetheart, and carrying everyone with them. This, I am certain you were already informed of."

' _Yes, yes. Your point?'_

"The Insiders have begun to move as well, including that dragon."

' _Insiders... all of them?! Have they nothing better to do?!'_

"It seems your repeated deployments have caught their attention, despite my best attempts to cloak your movements."

' _Will the Beasts move as well?'_

"Your predecessors have sealed Primate Murder perfectly, do not fret. As of the others... I sense a growing restlessness, but nothing more."

' _Argh... I'm going to curse non-stop, so stop the telepathy if you want.'_

After a few minutes, their conversation resumes.

"I notice you are having trouble with your valuable pawn."

' _She's not a- Never mind. What I need is a solution, not an admonishment, dear mother. If you are so kind, please enlighten me.'_

"I do not appreciate sarcasms, boy. Watch your tone."

' _Sorry. I am desperate.'_

A sigh comes from her imaginary mouth.

"You are looking into her too much. Take a step back and observe the bigger picture. The closer you look, the less you will see."

' _I'll... think over the answer to that riddle. Thank you very much.'_

"May you conquer all."

' _Geez... how complicated...'_

The main thing about working with an inhuman being is the difference in mindset. All these non-humans love using riddles and overly-complicated words, making the humans listening to them cock their heads in confusion. It's not as if they're doing it on purpose, as their own actions and decisions are similarly impractical.

Right... rather than complaining, what's actually Alaya hinting on?

' _Take a step back, huh?'_

It's a good idea.

In my momentary bout of panic when he examined Mordred, I might've missed something obvious. I can _look_ , of course, and with his Pure Eyes it's a simple matter, but I can't _see_ the answer yet. Recapping Cecilia's accounts, Clarent's records, and my own findings may yield a breakthrough.

From Cecilia's story, Mordred's condition has worsened ever since she annihilated the Soil of Genesis. For a few days, during the start of their travels, it posed no problems, but her condition fell off the cliff right after that. It's a classic example of noverworking one's body, evident in the aftermath of Mordred's battle. Using Clarent in full-power mode was already taxing in itself, with our last match together as a baseline, and that's not accounting the modifications applied to her body after that.

Tracing Clarent yielded some interesting information. Pæga's essence seeped deep into its core, transforming it from just a sword to an extension of Mordred herself. Its strength has exponentially increased, far more than what I was capable of forging inside my Reality Marble, by virtue of that essence. Of course, after that analysis, the ingredient made itself available to use for further projects, but it didn't detract the immense firepower it now contains. The original Clarent has been elevated to the Throne of Heroes, empowered by Mordred's original legend, and this new one, while not even a decade old, has already surpassed its predecessor which was over a thousand years older.

Mordred's body was in pretty good shape. The damage was mostly done by the conflict caused by the introduction of a new Origin, and it reflected back onto her body. The problem lies therein, and understanding its causes didn't give me any new clues how to deal with it.

How did I do it, back then? Alaya didn't have a record regarding my past, or maybe she has just deleted it, but my Origin definitely wasn't 'Sword' the moment I was delivered out of my mother's womb. In that fire, Alaya did something... the procedure was like...

' _Oh, hell no. There's no way I'm subjecting her to that!'_

Again, the only option is to let her resolve the situation herself. Mordred must accept that part of her, the part which I painstakingly sealed over the years, and the part which yearned for the destruction for everything she sees precious to gain a new level of strength. Everyone has their dark sides, including the old me, and Mordred is no different. The ordeal is high, and the experience will be excruciating, but it's the only way.

How to describe it, really? After having my own body disintegrated particle-by-particle while my pain receptors are still intact, and then the feeling of my own mind being shattered into pieces to be molded into something new? To be honest, I was afraid. I wished of salvation, and yet even that wish was being erased off my mind. The wish which my life anchored itself onto, to be able to survive that hellfire, and the ideals I had, all of it was slowly, piece by piece, smashed into nothingness.

Eventually, after a few decades, I managed to pull myself back together into the current me, but I still couldn't guarantee I was able to retireve absolutely everything I lost. As my soul transformed, all the unnecessary flourishes of emotions were automatically discarded, and no matter how perfectly I tried to emulate those feelings, in the end, they're all just fakes.

I did all that by accepting he's a 'Sword'. To acknowledge I am what I am, who I am, and to wholeheartedly embrace my new Origin... only then did I regain my sanity and strength.

So, all I need to do is convince my dear student to do the same.

It'd be very difficult, of course. I know her personality, and we didn't exactly part with the best terms, so I have no idea how she'll react knowing I saved her. I pray she won't condemn me, again. I may have had my emotions tempered, but being yelled at by a teary-eyed, beautiful girl regarding how much of an asshole I was still hurts regardless.

Right on cue, there's a small commotion from the other side of the wall.

I inhale, steeling myself for what's to come.

* * *

"Master! Please wait!"

Cecilia is frantically trying to stop Mordred from leaving the bed. The knight is clearly still exhausted and hasn't fully recovered, but she still staggers to reach the door. However, the exertion of energy causes her upper body to lost its strength, sending her face-first into Cecilia's welcoming bosom.

' _Why is she so stubborn to meet that man? Who is he, really?'_

She can understand if her master only wants to express her gratitude to Shirou. However, that can be achieved by sending Cecilia to call him, and she is certain he will not mind being summoned as such, considering Mordred's condition. The strange thing is her master's seemingly desperate attempts to meet him.

As if she is trying to pass on something important...

Regardless, it's not like this man is a runner. He's resting in the other room, available for her to call. Cecilia berates herself in hindsight for suspecting him, since her master would never want to meet someone who truly means evil, even if she is confident she's not wrong in her judgement. He has helped her, saved her and her master's life, and healed them both... Being wary is fine, but Mrs. Alcott will slap her while scolding harshly, saying she never raised Cecilia in that manner.

Right on time, the door opens.

' _Ah, good. Now's the ti-'_

Before Cecilia can finish her thought, her eyes widen at the change in her master's expression. It's a complicated one, a mix of surprise, happiness, and also... regret. It's different from her usual self-loathing look or her carefree, cheerful image, so it shocks Cecilia.

What happens next shocks her even more.

Mordred shrugs off Cecilia's hold, and slowly kneels on the ground. Since her strength hasn't returned, she ends up almost slithering to that position, but once set, Mordred bangs her forehead to the ground.

"Master, this humble student of yours accepts any punishment!"

Silence ensues.

Both Cecilia and Shirou are stunned, their mouth slightly ajar.

However, not paying heed to the situation, Mordred still hasn't lifted her forehead. Throughout the room, the sound of dripping liquid starts to reverberate, and a closer inspection point the source to Mordred's tears. Her shoulders are trembling gently, but her posture still hasn't broke.

Cecilia is simply astounded.

This man... what are the frickin' chances?! A man they met on a local highway turned out to be her master's master? Her 'grandmaster', then? How ridiculous is the chances to be purely coincidental? No, rather, so everything she said regarding herself and Mordred is...!

' _Ah... thank goodness I said nothing embarassing...'_

"Miss Cecilia, can you leave the both of us alone?" The man's voice says.

A 'hah' rings inside her mind, and her memory rewinds to what her master has said: 'punishment'.

' _No! I won't let her get hurt again!'_

She steps into Shirou's path, hands spread wide like a female eagle protecting her chick.

Now, it's Shirou's turn to be confused. Why is this girl standing there? He's not going to do anything, just a simple talk, now that his mind is in order. Did she take Mordred's surprise announcement too literally? What a strange student she has.

"G-Grandmaster!"

' _Whoa, whoa! What the hell?!'_

"Please, I beseech you! Master has done nothing wrong... all she did was because of my own incompetence! If you want to punish someone, I will take her place as the culprit!" Mirroring Mordred, Cecilia kneels and bangs her forehead to the floor. She's not a homunculus like her master, though, and the pain shot through her brain, causing a slight dizziness.

"Please!"

In the midst of it all, Shirou facepalms.

' _Am I still dreaming?'_

* * *

 **As always, don't forget to review, follow, and favorite! Bye!  
**


	6. Overdue Reunion

**Wow, really? None of you figured out the quiz? I admit, it's a bit difficult, since it's not exactly a household LN (and by that, I mean Light Novels, for one of the reviewers), but it was translated by one of the (rather) big translators, Krytyk. By the way, shout out to you, sir/lady! Good job on the translation, keep it up! And yes, if you haven't figured it out with that, the previous chapter's name comes from a technique used by the MC in Anti Magic Academy. Great light novel, shit anime. I recommend you all to at least support Krytyk and the author in your own personal ways, if not outright monetary donations in the form of purchases.**

 **This chapter is some sort of transition point between arcs. The first few chapters are introductions for my concept and overall writing style, and for those of you who's thirsting for action, the next couple of chapters should remedy that. Some glossary items will pop out every now and then, so keep an eye out! This one's somewhat short, but I hope you enjoy it all the same. We're going to visit one of the Arthurian legend's pivotal scene, and hopefully I can retell it with justice.**

 **Disclaimer: I'm still waiting on that remake on Tsukihime, TYPE-MOON...**

* * *

The world of the mind is fascinating.

It is incredible how this 3-pound organ, filled with only tiny neurons or _cables_ , in essential, can generate an incredible variety of imaginations and aspirations. It works literally faster than a human can think, so subtly that humans itself had no idea about its true importance or how it works for millennia. It can order the body to repair itself, or even repair _itself_ just by some rest, all almost autonomously.

The true marvel is how it actually does its duties. The human body is entirely self-regulated, performing tasks already programmed by evolution without any explicit orders from the consciousness of the soul. All this occurs in the subconscious, a grey area which still entices many researchers and occultists alike, trying to map its function and harness it.

In the subconscious, all base human instincts and desires is stored. How we dream, how we think, how we speak, how we live... all of it is regulated inside. No matter how much a human tries to change himself or herself, they cannot go against their own subconscious, irrelevant of how they claim to be a master of themselves.

Even space and time bow down in the realm of human's subconscious.

Many people claim they have experienced what scientists call 'lucid dreaming'. It's theorized as a state of half-conscious, the feeling of being awake to witness the dream with the full capability of human reaction. Of course, since it's a dream, the dreamer usually has little control of it, even if he feels able, and instead he or she is only being taken along for a ride inside their own subconscious. Those who dream of nightmares will feel hopeless as their worst fears approach and engulf them as they lay static on their beds, while the happy ones will taste a slice of heaven for what feels like days on end in one night, with a sense of disappointment after waking up.

It is this acceleration and decceleration of perception which makes the mind so incredible. In theory, if it can do that during sleep, why can't humans use it while awake? If it can be properly learned and utilized, the impact in human lives will be enormous. Gone will lethal accidents and deaths due to disasters or unforeseen circumstances, since humans can just avoid them as if they're traveling at a snail's pace. There will be no need for lengthy sleep of rest, if the body can re-energize itself in a few minutes what it feels like a few hours' worth of sleep.

Incredible, truly incredible.

However, for Mordred, this feature of her own mind has been hell.

In the two days she has been unconscious, it felt like two decades to herself.

Two Origins inside a single being, one natural and the other an add-on. It's an arrangement which can make even the maddest magi shout 'heresy!', with an end condition almost certain: mutual destruction. Inside her own mind, the years went by with these conflict raging on every minutes, seconds, down to every single conscious moment.

And she was losing in every one of those moments.

The feeling of Pæga's blood and essence devouring her own soul, against the natural defense of her own, was incredibly overwhelming. His Origin waved around, latching itself into her soul, drilling holes into it, drowning it in his own parasitic Origin.

It felt disgusting.

\- STATIC.

The ideas of the Origin 'Liberation' kept on pounding her own, shattering its outer layer and destroying the inside. It felt like her own organs was covered with a sticky slime, corroding her from the inside out, seeping from her deepest, most secretive core out to every orifice she had.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to kill herself, just to end the pain. She was willing to give everything, as long as the torment stopped.

\- STATIC!

However, it never ended.

She felt Pæga's strength was superior to her own. After all, how could a homunculus, no matter how perfectly crafted, compete with a Divine Beast? It could have easily eliminate all resistance from her meager soul, destroy it completely and mold herself into what Pæga wanted.

Nothing of that sort happened.

Instead, his Origin only partially attacked her own, then retreating the moment she couldn't fight back anymore, to allow her to heal her own soul and rest. After that, it would start to consume once more, gnawing inside her mind and body, until she was half-dead, and left her again to heal.

The torture continued on and on an on, endlessly repeating itself.

\- STATIC! STATIC! STATIC!

She was going insane. No, perhaps she already had, because how could a madman know when precisely she went insane in the first place? All she knew was this endless repeating agony, just enough to prevent her own subconcious shutting down for good.

' _Save me...'_

She thought her training was complete. She thought she has achieved her desired strength, that was to be the best of the best. She thought her heart and mind have gone through enough to be able to endure anything life might throw at her.

After that two days, her spirit broke.

She couldn't wake up. She couldn't even move her body, or even feel the connection between her soul and it. She was doomed to be stuck in her own subconscious, spending eternity in this hell.

Dread and fear already devoured her heart. Despair and pain destroyed her mind. As her soul was going to be consumed, only a scant few memories gave her the strength to endure.

The long, wavy, silky golden hair of her student. The laughter of the children from the Alcott House. The comforting hum of steel from Clarent. The scent of fresh grass and fragrant herbs.

And, finally, the image of the man she loves.

For the first time in her life, Mordred gave up.

And then, through the cloud of agony covering her mind, a shining ray of silver pierced and dispersed it.

Immediately, a familiar sensation returned to her mind. It's a feeling from a year ago; a feeling of familiarity and home. The warmth of the touch, the slight scent of sweat, the heat from the palm on her body, all of it was nostalgic to her.

Her mind returned to her body, allowing her to regain her physical sensation once more. However, much as she yearned to open her eyes, the seductive allure of sleep overcame her, and her conciousness shut off instantly, granting her the relief she has so desperately sought.

At long last, she could rest.

The moment Mordred saw him, all the emotions buried inside her heart burst out uncontrollably.

She didn't care if her dignity was destroyed in front of her own student. She didn't care how pathetic she looked, or how she sounds. She didn't care about the dull ache permeating her muscles, as she moved to prostrate herself in front of Shirou.

Everything that has happened was because of her. Everything was her fault. The deaths of all those villagers, Cecilia's hardships, her own pain-filled two days... the words 'if only' filled her mind with regret. She's not one of those moaners who ranted on how unfair life was, but in this occasion, she regretted her actions because she knew what she did wrong.

She was the one who demanded Shirou told her everything about her own conception. She has already predicted the hard truth she would be faced against, and combined with his own blunt personality, she would feel like the ground has disappeared from beneath her. She knew all of this, and yet she was still consumed with hatred and rage. Thus, she denounced herself and ran from reality, hoping her own destiny would change just like that.

She was the one who thirsted for power to overturn said destiny, blindly reaching out to anyone who could grant her that wish. She has begged Pæga for more power to deny fate the last laugh, without completely understanding the risks or even suspecting the dragon to keep his end of the bargain.

She was the one who failed to prepare herself for the long journey ahead, caused by her impulsive decisions before, which lead to her nearly starving to death. It was pure luck the Alcott House was willing to take her in, but that decision would prove costly. She had no doubt the monster who attacked was drawn in by her, and so she directly caused the needless suffering and deaths for those kind people who had accepted her.

How can she call herself a knight after blundering over and over again, only to satisfy her own ego? No, how can she even call herself a person, after committing actions which only caused pain and destruction for everyone around her?

She lashed out and betrayed the expectations of her own master, who has painstakingly raised her to be who she wanted to be, who has only treated her with kindness ever since she was born. She let out all her rage and hatred at her newly learned heritage at him, who was the first person to accept who she actually was. She denounced her love of him, even at the cost of the painful lie to her own heart.

She put her saviors in great peril. She placed her innocent student through dangers a girl like her wouldn't even encounter in her entire life if Mordred just stayed away like she was supposed to. She killed those villagers, simply by siphoning off their kindness and warmth, destroying their future.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

She lets everything out, not leaving a single thing.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

Her mouth can only say those words. That's all she can ever do: apologize. She can't save anyone, she can't be useful to anyone, she can't make anyone around her happy.

What does she live for, then? It may have been better for the man hugging her to chop off her head right there and then, to save future troubles, or anything else she has screwed up. Even this warmth she feels deep inside, cocooned in her teacher's firm grasp, feels wasted on herself.

Does she deserve any of this? She herself will only answer no, immediately.

However, Shirou never did all those things she thought she deserved.

She cries and wets his clothes. Her fist balls tightly, threatening to rip the fabric to shreds. She clings on to him as if he's the only lifeline in the world.

And yet... he never let her go.

He only rocks her gently, whispering calming words which sends shivers down her spine. He tightens his hold of her body every time she just wants to throw herself out of the window and die. He selflessly kisses her dirty, sweat-covered head to comfort her without complaining or showing discomfort.

What did she do in her previous life to obtain such a man?

She hates herself for her own shortcomings, and yet, in this building alone, there are two people who loves her nonetheless.

So she cries, and cries some more. Anything to let out this heavy weight pressing down her heart.

And then, after her tears has dried up, a wave of drowsiness overcomes her, and her fatigue causes her to drift back to sleep.

* * *

Under the moonlight, twin blades dance, slicing the air around them.

The surreal scene captivates Cecilia.

"Why are you still standing there?" A voice resounds through the night air, jolting her in surprise.

Even after saying that sentence, the movements of the blades don't waver in the slightest. Both of them curves elegantly, glossy black and cloudy white in perfect harmony, with no transition from one movement to the next. Up and down, left and right. Without pause, the pair carves their bewitching ritual onto the World, as if paying a tribute to the serene moonlight.

' _So... this is Grandmaster...'_

She hops down from the back porch onto the backyard. People usually call an early night in these parts of the kingdom, and as such the garden is thankfully clear of curious glance and suspicious glares. A perfect place and time for a sword practice.

She's supposed to worry about her master's condition, but now, her swordswoman's heart tickles. In front of such sublime skill, how can one not be mesmerized? Even a novice in the sword can tell the quality of the blades and the swordsman himself.

In her hand is her practice sword. It's slightly out of shape after fighting the demon beasts and the bandits, but it's useable for now. What's important is the knowledge about to be imparted, not appearance.

"She trained you well," a soft voice comments.

Cecilia blushes at the praise. Men often praises and teases her for her looks, but never for her ability, so this is something new for her. Shi-, no, Sir Shirou's eyes contain no trace of belittlement or lust, two things she's used to, but instead there's a healthy appreciation of her as a person and a swordswoman.

Her heart growing lighter with every step, she stands a few feet from him, just inside her sword range.

However, it'll be bad manners to suddenly ask for a lesson, so Cecilia opts to talk about Mordred, instead.

"Grandmaster, thank you for your help for Master. It's unsightly for me to-"

"Ah, no need for that," he cuts her off. "Perhaps you'll be hearing this a lot, but there's no reason not to help someone in peril. I'm sure Mordred has taught you that?"

Receiving a nod, he smiles.

"Now, you'd like something from me, no?"

He chuckles at her surprised expression. She soon recollects herself, and raises her sword.

"A lesson, please, Grandmaster."

"I'd do it if you stop calling me that."

"B-But...! That's... I can't..." she stutters.

"Grandmaster, er... This is the way I was brought up. Please at least indulge me with this."

He sighs. The serious types are sometimes hard to talk with, as it seems to be the case with the girl in front of her. Suddenly, he feels physically much older, like those grandfathers complaining about their age and the youngsters' way of life. Of course, mentally, he's much older, but her insistence on calling him 'Grandmaster' just gives him the odd sensation.

"Alright," he concedes, "then, show me what you've learned."

Without any kind of warning, she launches herself at him, sword swinging vertically from top to bottom.

It's a good form. The swing is balanced to avoid dragging her down, ready to change direction at any time if met with a block or a parry. The motion is short and crisp, much better than those arrogant young nobles who thinks they're a master swordsman after a few lessons. Either Mordred is an incredibly gifted teacher, or this girl is very talented, though he suspects the answer is a combination of the two.

Plus, she never gave him any warning to start with. That's a good mindset. Like when she took the bandits with surprise, it shows her ingenuity and seriousness, not wanting to be caught in stupid rules and pride.

Kanshou moves, parrying her with a minuscule circular motion. The power is generated from the ground up, culminating in such a small area of a circle, creating tremendous momentum. The twisting motion is completed faster than Cecilia can blink.

Her sword is wrenched out from her grip before she knows it.

Dumbfounded, she stands still there, still in a swinging motion. Only now she has no sword at all.

He flicks her forehead, sending her sprawling to the ground.

"Uuu..." she groans, holding a palm to her forehead.

"If you lose your weapon, switch immediately to hand-to-hand combat." He walks towards where her sword was thrown, and flicks it to her with his toes, not dissimilar to what she did to those bandits before. However, the sword flies much more gently, and it safely lands in her outstretched palm.

"H-How...?"

"Like I said, Mordred taught you well," he begins. "However, there's an aspect to her swordsmanship I suspect you've misunderstood. Today, I'd like to teach you this one thing only."

She scrambles to her feet, her eyes burning with eager curiosity.

He instinctively smiles at her buzzing enthusiasm, and thus begins his explanations.

"Try to attack me again."

She does as she is told, her attack coming with the same ferocity as before.

Her vertical swing hits only air, slicing only a centimeter in front of Shirou's nose, who has simply half-steps to the side. Before she can reverse her momentum, his palm locks her grip on the sword, preventing her from moving.

Gently, he moves her hand about in a curving motion.

"Your sword strikes are very well-balanced... by-the-book, shall we say. Mordred has taught you the basics extremely well, however, such attacks are always predictable, and..."

He lightly pushes her shoulders to the side, sending her stumbling to regain her stance.

"It's not too solid if countered to the side."

Indeed, after a quick Trace of her practice sword, it gives him plenty of information regarding her personal styles and habits. However, what impresses him the most is that this simple, rustic sword has identified the being called 'Cecilia' as its owner and master, which means she has used it often enough for Akasha to update its own records. It hasn't seen combat much, making all her accumulated time comes from rigorous, hard training.

It's not often you see a girl so whole-heartedly devoted to swordsmanship, not including Mordred, of course.

Mordred started introducing Cecilia to sword techniques nice and slow, evident in her previous attacks. She has a good base, and her lower body has the appropriate strength and flexibility to initiate proper strikes. It's a good all-rounder, with the capacity to deal with most situations, and if polished properly, those assholes trying to rape her wouldn't stand a chance.

There's only one problem: it's a sword style made for men.

He's not saying that women can't swing a sword as good as men, however, since their inherent musculature and mindset are different, one style which suits women might not suit men purely without modifications. He guesses Mordred didn't really know what to teach her, and so simply taught the ones she saw on her travels, which, of course, was dominated by men. His dear student has practically zero experience in dealing with another person before she ran off, but her efforts are commendable.

Women's skeletal form has a different core strength than men. Theoretically, their center of motion generates power from the hips rather than the waist, aided with their natural flexibility. It's this difference from men he'd like to exploit in teaching Cecilia, in order to give her a proper advantage in a sword duel or a life-or-death battles.

Mordred suffers little from this disadvantage because of her composition. Therefore, he taught her swordsmanship in a different way, to optimize everything in her disposal. A style utilizing Prana Burst and Reinforcement is worlds apart from the usual pragmatic style of a normal, run-of-the-mill knight... but Cecilia possesses none of those.

He has secretly Traced her body, and found no latent ability for Magecraft. He has hoped for the opposite, that Mordred has truly found a diamond in the rough, but he now knows what caught Mordred's eyes is her talent with the sword, not with Magecraft. Sure, he can teach her to create fake Magic Circuits, like what the old Shirou used to do, but it's as inefficient and dangerous as burning one's own furniture to feed the hearth in a winter's day.

He has to make do with what she has, maximize it, and teach her how to optimize it in every condition.

And so, at least until Sleeping Beauty wakes up, the night is filled with the sounds of metal clashing against metal, with the occasional dull sound of a thrown flesh to the ground.

* * *

King Pelles is kneeling in an otherwordly place.

His domain, Corbenic, lies just northeast of the capital of the kingdom. It's a place bordering the sea, and unusually rich with leylines. He himself is knowledgeable regarding the Moonlit World, but he has no talent or ability in it. Some of his daughter's retainer are magi, however, none of them know of this place.

His castle overlooks a cliff which juts into the sea, its cream walls always glows seductively in the sunset. Looking from above, or any angle for that matter, it's just a castle near a limestone cliff. Indeed, the cliff only looks irregular and porous, but anyone trying to scale its walls, Reinforced or not, will find it to be full of razor-sharp edges and slippery slopes.

There is a secret chamber built into the cliff, completely isolated from any access by feet, horse, or wings. The only way to enter this chamber is to access the teleportation ritual circle inside another secret bunker in the palace, guarded and locked by multitudes of traps, puzzles, and enchanted guards.

Why the security, one may ask?

It is due to its importance to King Pelles.

This place... the being in front of him answers any doubts regarding its nature.

[Has everything been well lately, Pelles?]

The voice is both sweet and cold, accepting yet condemning him at the same time, as if the kind voice is just a thin mask hiding a vicious contempt to all humanity. As a king, he has never encountered such tone being uttered in front of him, but he dares not say any complaints. If he does, everything he knows will be razed flat to the ground, all he has worked so hard for disappearing in a single moment.

His heart can't bear the weight of lifting his own face to gaze at the otherworldly, divine beauty in front of him.

"Yes, Lady Nimue."

[Fufufu, good, good.]

A liquid tendril touches and caresses his face, sneaking their way through his rough stubble without wetting them. To his skin, it feels just like a virgin maiden's smooth thighs, even though it's a translucent and monstrous limb.

"It's all due to my Lady's guidance."

[Oh, how good you are at flattery...]

The tendril retracts, but another one immediately takes its place, lifting his head and forcing him to look straight at her.

Almost instantly, his face changes from a stern caution into an expression of adoration and worship. Usually, Nimue dislikes these kinds of easily enchanted people, and they've driven her bored to death, but sometimes these people have their own uses... Especially if the person's daughter is someone who has the ability to be the nexus point for history.

People who acts as these 'nexuses' are the ones who will be written down in history as the instigator to a major act. The act may be a benevolent one, resulting in the salvation and happiness of many, or the other way around, resulting in chaos and total destruction of everything built around them.

Personally, she prefers the latter one for entertainment. Her goody-two-shoes, boring sister always likes to play the hero, but she lacks desire for drama and climaxes. If the world runs along Nyneve's wishes, it'd be a bland utopia where every single being lives contend and satisfied, with no aspirations or dreams anymore.

Such a world... is boring, right?

Inwardly, Nimue laughs at the step she's about to take.

[Pelles, listen carefully. This is my latest wisdom, born from a long and hard contemplation. Be grateful.]

"It's my pleasure, my Lady!"

She chuckles at his puppy-dog enthusiasm. Really, humans are so simple.

[Your daughter shall bear a son, and he shall be the greatest knight there is.]

"Oooohhhhhh!"

Pelles makes a sound in awe. As a local ruler, having a son is an incredible news in itself. In this testing times, heirs are lost as soon as they're born, and many lords and barons are left with daughters and nephews to run their territories. They are all very good, make no mistake, but there can be no replacement for the satisfaction in seeing one's own son be successful.

This premonition is also indirectly foretelling a massive improvement regarding his daughter's current dire condition. These few years have been filled by grief when he thought of her, as he laid powerless during her endless torture.

Lady Nimue's words have never failed him.

"A knight..." Pelles whispered. "My Lady, may I trouble you with a little matter?"

[Fufufu, I shall grant you permission this time.]

"Please name this talented grandson of mine, so I can call him by this exalted name when he is born."

His heart is jumping with excitement at the fortune he has been dealt. King Arthur has always regarded anyone with proper abilities highly, and if this soon-to-be-grandson of his can truly live up to Lady Nimue's foresight, this boy shall be a great name indeed.

In this mindset, he has neglected to ask who the father will be.

[His name... shall be Galahad!]

* * *

How did it turned out to be like this?

That thought is simply one of the few which managed to sneak through, as her consciousness is always occupied by the pain.

Pain... Is it still painful? Or has her brain blocked out the sensation covering her skin, simply to prevent her going insane with the agony? The three years she spent inside this vat of torture, with her mind only able to let out thoughts of it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts...

All because of that woman...

The revolution led by the young King Arthur has shaken the very foundations of authority in this isle. For several centuries, the land was occupied by warring lords and chieftains, all greedily fighting over territories and power like mad beasts. To the normal populace, their faces were no different to that of a demon king.

All those stories regarding the nightmares on earth from the legends actually realized on these lands, decimating all life and draining the prosperity from the people. As a child, hearing the reports of her father's soldiers and watching those actions happening in front of her eyes as she grew older, she grew disgusted with them all.

Her father shared her concerns, and consulted a powerful magi to strengthen their territory and prevent any more casualties to their land.

For several years, the plans the magi created and the rules birthed from it has brought a sliver of stability into their territory, at least until King Arthur stepped up and took the throne. His ascension brought peace throughout the lands, and his command and charisma attracted many to join his side, her father included. Finally, after all those long years, children could sleep soundly and eat until they're full, and the young girls kept their dignity and honor from those hungry barbarians.

Too bad it didn't last.

It was all too sudden.

One occasion, the three of them, herself, her father, and the female magi was having a casual dinner. After the union of the small kingdoms into the Kingdom of Britain, the magi's role in court became smaller and smaller, but she herself has stated she felt no discontent with the situation. They were just talking calmly, dining on some recently cultivated crops, when the princess's consciousness went black.

The place she woke up was this hell.

Her body was completely immersed inside a large glass coffin filled with boiling water. The coffin was large and transparent, higher and taller than what was used for humans, and able to hold a tremendous amount of water.

Small or big, however, didn't change the fact she couldn't escape at all.

First, her skin went. The skin she was so proud of, fair and smooth, wilted away and crumpled like wet parchment by the heat, tearing off her muscles and nerves underneath. Then, she could feel her muscles slowly getting stiffer and stiffer, like a meat being cooked, slowly... slowly... slowly...

Finally, just when her organs were ready to burst and kill herself, her body was healed and the pain started all over again.

The pain subjected was enough to almost make her pass-out... but only just. Her consciousness never cut-off for even a second, always screaming in agony. It's a miracle she hasn't gone insane yet... or that damn witch also took this into account?

Why hasn't she died from hunger yet? Not eating anything these three years should be lethal...

She tried to kill herself, but the pain kept her mouth strained awake in a silent scream, unable to bite off her own tongue.

There were gaps between the mist of torture where she could see her father and various people crowding and shouting around the coffin, desperately trying to break it and release her. Sometimes she saw young knights with an arrogant look on their faces uselessly bashing their tools into her prison, tempted by the prize put out the father. One time, a time she won't ever forget, she saw the bitch coldly sneering at her state, the magi's fingers caressing the coffin as if it's her greatest masterpiece.

Now, her heart was already broken in pieces, despair consuming her entire being.

Just a single prayer was left in her heart... a small wish upon a dimming star.

' _Save me...'_

She reaches out with an imaginative hand, wishing with all her might.

...

...and someone grabs it.

Before she has time to widen her eyes, the container surrounding her shattered.

Her lungs expands painfully at the first taste of fresh air for God knows how long, her rib cage creaking at the effort. Her delicate, open flesh sends shocks throughout her system at contact with the bottom of the container, while the colder air stabs dull pain straight to her bones.

After three long years, her body is overwhelmed by the long-lost physical sensation. However, that's only the tip of the iceberg.

Her mind itself is overwhelmed by one thing called 'freedom'.

"Ahh... ahh...!"

Her voice box is understandably inoperative. All she can muster is hoarse groaning, unable to thank her savior or yell out with pain. Truthfully, she doesn't even know which one she'd like to do first.

Her mind is a blur.

Somehow, she can feel her body being wrapped gently to avoid injuring her burnt skin even further. Her body then is lifted and carried away somewhere, probably to a healing room. Before she passes out, she manages to catch a glimpse of her savior.

Tall, black hair which reaches to his shoulders. His face is gentle and handsome, with determined and caring eyes which steals her breath away. She can tell by this one glance only...

She has fallen for him.

For this knight called Lancelot du Lac.


	7. Sleepless Nights

**As always, I want to start by thanking all those who spent their time to review and follow/favorite. Your support is immeasurable in its existence. As for those of you who _didn't_ review, well, I urge you to not be like myself and do so. By the way, one of the reviewers have PM'ed me about the usage of the word 'Prana'. I did some research, and actually, he/she was right. The previous chapters have been revised, so there shouldn't be any problem now.**

 **That said, there's not much to talk about in this Author's Note, so I'll just give a shout-out to two massive disappointments in the world of motorsport: the Italian GP for MotoGP and Monaco GP for F1. Such a shame both more deserving winners being denied a win like that, as much as the eventual winner do have some merit.**

 **Now, enjoy, and review!**

 **Disclaimer: I wish F/GO has a light novel or anime adaptation, but since I don't own TYPE-MOON, it's a wishful thinking. Nasu, this is your hint.**

* * *

"Mmm..."

An arousingly soft sensation keeps my consciousness from drifting away. Fortunately, I've long since mastered the ability to allow my body to rest while keeping my mental faculties alert. Traps and alarms can only do so much, so this is a very useful and efficient technique for staying safe and alive in the wild.

However, right now, I'm only thankful for the fact Cecilia sleeps next door, not with us two.

Once more, for what feels like a thousand times already, the soft-thingy sleeping inside his arms stirs gently, pressing supple mounds and curves into my body.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

' _Good, good. Now, stay down, boy...'_

Suffice to say, the motion is incredibly stimulating, even if I've experienced it before. A few years of separation may have caused this shock, but it's not unmanageable for me. What I have to be careful of is the danger of letting myself being controlled by my own emotions, for I can possibly hurt Mordred once more.

The 'Knights Code' informally spreading around will condemn their relationship. A master and student should stay as such, with no personal feelings mixed in the way. He will be seen as a lecher who takes advantage of his naive, beautiful student, and Mordred will be stamped as a shameless woman who seduces her own teacher. Both rumors, if they circulate, will damage my plans much, and so I asked Cecilia to keep it a secret.

I bury my face into her scalp, letting the scent of her perfume and sweat into my nostrils.

' _This time, for sure, I'll succeed...'_

People's opinions never really mattered to me, personally. They're great for inciting crown movements and gaining political momentum, but to my own self, I could care less what they think of me. I know, this sort of thinking is what killed EMIYA and let him to become a Counter Guardian, but as long as I properly communicate my intentions, and showing examples of what to follow, this won't be a problem. However, Mordred and Cecilia are a different matter entirely.

I love her. I can honestly say, with my hand on my heart, I love Mordred as a woman.

Yet, this love is a mere copy of what can be... of what she has shown him it's supposed to be.

I am happy she retained none of the contempt she showed him as they parted, returning our relationship to its previous state. But a few nights of thinking has brought me to this epiphany: this is unhealthy, mainly for her.

To be like this... to attain this strength, I've discarded everything.

One of the main thing which inhibits growth is emotion. Yes, it can also be a catalyst to fuel improvements for human beings, but its boost is limited. Once it gets to a certain stage, it becomes a burden instead. For me to fulfill my ideals, and for Alaya to sustain her existence, both her and I decided this level of strength isn't enough.

The strength of a hero isn't enough. The strength of a Counter Guardian isn't enough. The strength gained from years of training inside the Throne of Heroes, with the Akashic Records as reference, isn't enough.

To raise to that very next step, something has to be taken off.

Therefore, I threw it all away.

To save them all, I discarded everything else which could obstruct my growth.

However, it was a terrible mistake.

As I descended to the world, we realized it far too late.

What makes a hero, a hero? And it's opposite: what makes a villain? It's not their deeds, or their abilities. It's not their looks, nor their prestige. In fact, the answer can be summarized in one word: acceptance.

People themselves choose who they call a hero and a villain.

For an emotionless being, even if I was yearning for their salvation, none of the people I met ever accepted me, or my salvation.

In the end, they chose to slip from my guard and die, cursing myself as they did.

I closed my eyes as they did, the words stabbing deep into my heart. How was this fate different from EMIYA? In fact, it's almost comically, scene-by-scene an exact copy.

Useless.

What we did couldn't be undone. To complete erase my emotions, Alaya altered the Akashic Records with her ability, and frankly, there's just not enough to restore it to what it was. So now, both of us were stuck with this robotic, stone-faced body which people will probably throw down the stream just to get rid of.

Humanity couldn't accept a savior, if the savior himself couldn't accept and understand them as human beings.

And so, we came to a dramatic solution.

If the emotions were gone, and couldn't be returned, why not fabricate them? I was nothing more than a Faker, after all. With all my strength, that fact still hadn't changed.

The base was taken from the Akashic Records. There existed countless data regarding everything that had happened, was happening, and would happen in the future, especially regarding humans. We set those data inside my mind as the foundation, and used my interactions with those humans as the building blocks.

In effect, I mimicked their feelings. Joy, happy, grateful, anger, excited, sorrow, despair, hatred, love... all of it was perfectly replicated after a few decades' worth of work.

At long last, I could feel again.

After what felt like millennia, I could sense my own heart beating in harmony with the people around me. I could laugh, cry, shout, grieve, and bond a genuine relationship with them. I could shift my mind out of its cold-blooded tendencies and follow my own emotions, going along with the torrent of festivities among me.

I could love, and be loved again.

However, in the end, a fake is a fake, no matter how good it is.

And Mordred deserves more than that.

I watched her grow and mature into a splendid young woman, and it wouldn't be an understatement to say I know her better than anyone else, alive or not. I know what she dreams of every night, what she chases after single-mindedly, only accompanied by him and her sword. I know what she desires, and what she hates.

I know how much she loves me, both as a teacher and as a man.

Sadly, all I can give her in return is this mock-up of a feeling.

It's frustrating.

Isn't love supposed to be a two-way deal? Isn't that what those ancient bards and philosopher always said? Isn't the purpose of humans, or any living beings, to love and be loved by each other? If not, then why did we all develop these complicated brains and heart that could process the information regarding interpersonal relationship, and categorize it as 'emotions'? What for?

I can give no answer, only to hug her tighter instead, hoping sleep will claim me soon.

* * *

A constant tapping rhythm disturbs the serene calm of the palace's records room.

To many, it's a sound which causes aggravation, since the normally calm and silent area is now filled with these annoying taps. However, the maids and soldiers dare not to complain to the noise-maker, for fear they'd be transformed into a frog or something.

After all, it's not often Merlin visits Camelot, and it's an even rarer occasion when he's in a foul mood.

His frustration stems from his inability to find Morgan's killer.

His findings has consolidated the fact she was attacked by a person, not a demon or by a natural disaster. Too many clues were scattered around, almost as if the perpetrator deliberately left those in place to confuse any investigator. What causes the biggest headache for him is the fact the culprit seemed to be trained in Magecraft very well, to be able to hinder his investigations so much.

His heart isn't filled with revenge. He loved that woman, truly and honestly, but he loved this country even more. He worked so hard, so long to lay the foundations to this kingdom and to its king, to create the everlasting utopia both of them chased and coveted. It's a simple choice of which option he liked the most and the least, and, in this case, Morgan has to eventually exit the scene, either by his own hands or another.

In that aspect, he's grateful to the killer for reducing his workload. This heartless mindset is required to take a step into the world of magic, especially if one has reached his level of Magecraft. Therefore, this search isn't fueled by negative emotions, just pure, unadulterated curiosity.

He could draw the fight scene-by-scene perfectly inside his head, of which he has drawn and recorded into several pieces of parchment. It's actually ready during the meeting on the Round Table, however, information this specific regarding a rogue magus was too precious and sensitive to share to those ignorant knights. Not that he has a lot of beef with them, far from it, but their concerns and his were too often misaligned.

The barriers on the outside were expertly lifted and diffused. They're mostly for detection and non-lethal traps, just enough to keep wild animals and wandering woodsman out of the territory. However, as befitting of Morgan's skill, the barriers were far more complicated than their counterparts in a usual magus's house. A triple-layer detection barrier, one for physical movement, one for mental detection and interference, and the last for spirit interference, should keep practically any being from entering undetected.

They're all seamlessly dismantled, so subtly Merlin could still activate the traps if he wished to just by a twist of magic energy. He couldn't fathom the dismantling method, as he himself could only smash the barrier to pieces with brute force. Unless a tool existed, specifically designed to have an Anti-Prana or Anti-Magic properties, powerful enough to completely and safely disable such defensive setup, it'd be pretty much impossible to repeat the deed.

After the killer has bypassed that, he was faced by the more lethal and destructive traps and sentries. Curses has been set to fire in a random timing to prevent anyone to record their timing, just one of them enough to boil a person's blood in a few seconds. An array of invisible wind-blades rotated and danced with each other, interlocking and overlapping any blind spots to butcher the flesh of every intruder.

High-quality golems patrol the inner perimeter, accompanied with chimaeras and homunculi, each with their own strength and duties, arranger in a classic formation. The golems served as vanguards, with the chimaeras used their speed and agility to wreak havoc inside the enemy's formation under the golem's protection. Magecraft-specialized homunculi would bombard the enemy from afar to leave nothing to chances. It's a boring formation, but effective.

All of them laid in pieces, shredded as if a typhoon has gone through them.

Ah, no... that's actually an exaggeration. The term 'typhoon' suggested a chaotic form of destruction, an unstoppable force of nature. While the latter description was adept, the first one couldn't be further from the truth.

The golems, chimaeras, and the homunculi all was dismantled precisely alongside their joints, like with a surgical knife through butter. The wounds were completely smooth like flaked obsidian, letting out no critical fluids at all. The cut suggested bladed weapons were in use, but there wasn't anything specific or particular regarding the weapon's type. There were slashes from a broadsword, shortsword, glaive, spear, sabres, knives, scimitars, and many others he couldn't identify.

Could the killer actually be more than one person? Killers?

It's possible. One was an expert in dismantling barriers, the other an expert fighter. The last one was probably a Magus Killer, finishing the job and destroying the Workshop. He knew of no single person who could do these three tasks all by himself, or a group who possessed such members. That's why this case was so fascinating to him.

Morgan put up an incredible fight, as tough as he knew she could. There were traces of her most powerful spells, where the ground and air were deprived of their vitality and vibrancy, along with scorched earth and pulverized mounds. The wasteland he reported on the Round Table was an understatement to the actual destruction which occurred.

The one thing missing was the traces of the killer's, or killers', attacks and defenses.

It was an incredibly clean crime scene. Absolutely zero clues was left behind which would be able to identify the attack, let alone the attacker. He suspected the perpetrators possessed means to reverse cause-and-effect, such was the thoroughness of the clean-up. The other possibility was one of time control, and that's an opponent he'd rather not face against.

Interesting, so very interesting.

...and frustrating all the same.

' _Damn...'_

* * *

A stinging sensation assaults my nostrils, snapping my eyes open.

Fortunately, it's not an attack from an enemy.

Well, to be fair, it _is_ an attack from the enemy of all mankind: mornings.

I'm a morning person, though, so I'm not that bothered by it. Rather, something else is actually catching my attention a lot.

Where's Mordred?

The side of my bed where she slept is empty. There's still some lingering warmth in it, so it couldn't be too long after she left. However, the question now is how did she get up (she's _not_ a morning person), shake herself free from my grasp, and walk out without waking me up?

Hmm...

Ah, last night's frustrations must've caught up with me. We've been separated for a good three years, and these things happen, I suppose. Even I'm not infallible. A lonely pang resounds deep in my heart, which is a good sign the fakery is working properly. It doesn't mean I'm okay with it, though.

I rise and do my morning preparations.

For the umpteenth time, I muse how technology has made humans, and by extension myself, so spoiled. EMIYA's memories were used to construct my basic brain functions, mainly for his battle experience, but it also contained the sensation of bathing in a big tub full of hot water whenever he wanted. Of course, electric heaters haven't been invented yet, and I have my hands full with other projects to try and craft one.

And so, I'm left to shower with cold water in a chilly British morning.

As the bone-chilling water splash down my body, I regulate my breathing in sync with the flow of my magic energy, slowly circulating it through my body as an early exercise. It also keeps my body warm against the freezing water, so it's striking two birds with one stone.

Concentrating, I sense Mordred's magic energy signature a few miles away, near the border of the town. Perhaps she's getting some morning exercise? I can't sense Cecilia next door either, so they must've been together for now. I can know more clearly if I use my Eyes, but I refrain from such mentally taxing activities straight after waking up, not if I have time for leisure.

' _Geez, I can't even react to Cecilia waking up. I must be tired...'_

Instead of joining their early training, let's make them some breakfast. It'll be a good relaxation for me too. A hobby must be indulged as often as it's convenient, or a man's brain will fry up and die horribly. At least, that's what I strongly believe.

A quick check to the skies reveals I didn't overslept, merely the two ladies woke up extremely early. However, because it's still early, I can afford a quick trip to the market to resupply my stuff, as well as some cooking ingredients.

Having decided on that, I clean up their belongings and neatly pack them back into their bags. There's no need to stay in this town for a moment longer than necessary, since the knight corps I met back in the village's remains will eventually arrive and start asking questions. The two girls may fancy a bath after their training, though, so a stop at a nearby inn or lake must do.

Renting three well-fed horses, I lead the packages away, out to a flat field just outside the town. There, some remains of overnight campers still smolder gently, a reminder of those who can't afford the money or time to rest in an inn. I choose a relatively wide spot and settle down, tying the horses down and setting my cooking tools up. I could've borrowed the inn's kitchen, but as a fellow chef, I know full-well how irritating it was for somebody else using my own kitchen, so I decided against it.

I close my eyes momentarily, then activate my Pure Eyes.

A glance to the horizon reveals Mordred and Cecilia's path coming straight here, but they won't be arriving for another hour or so. It seems Cecilia is slightly struggling to match her teacher's pace, but not as much as I expected... She's quite the talent, that girl. Good find for Mordred.

Under the still-cold sunlight, I start making breakfast.

Since I don't have a large variety of ingredients, unlike a modern world, I have to make do with what Britain's finest has to offer, which isn't saying much. There are some useful herbs and seasonings in stock, but much of what I'm using will be coming out of my personal stash. Many magi will kill me just for the fact I use my own Workshop as a greenhouse to cultivate outsourced ingredients, but hey, that's also 'research'.

A few minutes later, and the cooking is going well.

Today's menu consists of fluffy omelettes with tomato-basil sauce and caramelized thick-cut loafs, with a side of boiled potatoes and sliced ham. Classic and boring, I'm sure many will comment, but what makes a chef great is his or her attention to detail, lifting a simple meal to truly magnificent heights. I prepare large portions, both for me and the famished girls.

Several of the town's inhabitants who walk past me have drool hanging off the corner of their mouth, their eyes full of greedy desire. However, they still have their dignity, so none of them comes over and asks for a bite. Normally, I'll indulge such behavior, but the food won't be enough to satisfy that gluttonous student of mine if I do.

Just on time, as the breakfast is nearly done, two silhouettes appear from behind the morning mist.

Mordred instantly quickens her pace as her sensitive nose smells the cooked breakfast, a wide grin gracing her lips. Her student is panting behind, looking pale as a ghost as she wheezes air into her lungs, her legs stumbling every now and then with fatigue.

Faster than what I can imagine, my student drops down to sit in front of me, as energetic as a small puppy. Her excitement incites a small chuckle from me, as her eyes follow every movement of my skillet. Playfully, I flick the tip of her nose, causing her to pout and stomp childishly.

"Muu... then give me the bigger one!" She loudly exclaims.

A few minutes later, Cecilia drags her body near to where Mordred is sitting, depositing her sweaty body roughly to the ground. Really, this girl's enthusiasm for training scares me sometimes, but then I immediately smack myself internally for saying such hypocritical things.

"At least be mature in front of your student, Mordred," I say, still smiling, while preparing the slightly bigger portion to Cecilia's plate.

"Uuu... I hate you!"

She 'hmph's away, though the fakeness of the act is so apparent even Cecilia starts to laugh.

"Now, now," he says, "play nice, you two."

A few minutes later, and I'm enjoying the scene of Cecilia waving her fork around like an expert angler, with her pitiful prey dancing along with every movements of her wrist. After that, the three of us shares a good laugh, mainly at Mordred's expense, but she seems to have put her troubles of the last few nights to the back of her mind.

The occasional sizzle from the cooling skillet, the scent of burnt fat, the clinking noise of utensils, all of it combines with the sound of satisfied stomach and nature to create a perfect picture. I can't stop a smile at the atmosphere we are in, wishing this peace can be felt by all the people in the kingdom.

As soon as we finished, I call for their attention.

"As you can see, I've checked us out," I say, waving my arms at the large bags beside him. "We should relocate, at least until Mordred recovers."

"Why?" Mordred asks, confused. "I'm fi- ...alright, alright!"

She relents immediately after Cecilia shoots her a sharp glare. Feeling guilty for half-scolding her own master, she grasps Mordred's palm gently. "Master, Grandmaster is right. Staying here will only bring more trouble for us, especially if the knight group Grandmaster mentioned catches wind of our location."

I nod in approval. Funny how it seems the student is teaching the master, but I have half-expected this development. For better or for worse, Mordred is only four years old, compared to Cecilia who's seventeen. The disparity in their mental development is huge.

Still pouting, Mordred agrees reluctantly. Her pride still refuses to acknowledge her condition, especially in front of Cecilia, but being sieged on two fronts wears her defense down.

Judging her condition in the last few days, her physical abilities is intact, as is evident during this morning's practice. However, her focus and judgment has clearly taken an impact, and I'm not going to let someone like that wield a sword, much less go to a battlefield. After last night's contemplation, I've decided on a place for her... say, rehabilitation, and more afterwards, but it's not something I can readily discuss in a place like this.

"Er... Grandmaster?"

"Yes, Cecilia?"

"Are we stopping somewhere? Judging from your words, we're going somewhere far, right? These horses are nice, but they will barely hold two days, so..."

Astonished at her accurate observation, I explain, "Don't worry. See this?"

I take out three metal spheres from my bag, showing them to her. They're perfectly round, but their surfaces aren't smooth or glossy like normal metal balls. It's constructed from numerous small parts connected together, gears and levers spinning in a rhythm, almost like a beating heart.

Cecilia looks confused, and rightfully so. These three are perhaps my most ambitious engineering project yet, combining modern science with Magecraft to achieve maximum efficiency. For her, who's never even seen someone use magic energy a few months ago, any explanation regarding how they work will just fly over her head. So, I simply explain to her that this-

Ah, Mordred beat me to the punch.

"Fufufu, you underestimate Shirou! Behold, student!"

She nimbly takes one of the spheres from my hand before I can put them away, and tosses it to her side.

In a few tenth of a second, the sphere unfolds, growing bigger and bigger like birthday present box unwrapping, until it forms a metal stallion, as mighty and majestic as those heroic steeds.

It's a beast worthy of a master sculptor; its musculature, skin tone, and hairs all perfectly replicated, moving smoothly like their living counterparts. Its eye sockets and nostrils shine with a blue glow, its mane and tail wave excitedly. The only difference between it and normal horses is the sound it makes; a whirring sound reverberates from deep inside its body, not too loud, but quite high-pitched.

[Mystic Code: Clockwork Steeds]

They're my attempt on a useful, day-to-day, mass-produced automaton.

Normal automatons, created by either magi or mad scientists, tend to only cater to the best of one world: beautifully constructed engineering or complicated harmony of runes and magic circles. As such, the non-Magecraft powered automatons tend to be heavy and cumbersome, yet exquisitely crafted, and its opponent tend to look simple and naturally birthed, yet incredibly expensive and difficult to make.

A scientist will only proclaim Magecraft as heresy, and a magus will only proclaim science the same. There was never an attempt to combine their knowledge and insight, since they both know it will only kill their own craft in the end. Magecraft's power will weaken as science caught up with its abilities, and science's ingenuity will be rendered meaningless in front of Magecraft's nature-bending ability.

So, I decided to get the best of both worlds... as a side project to keep my mind occupied while I wait.

In these missions, I do _a lot_ of waiting.

Let's look over the specifications.

Each beast contains three magic energy generator, accommodating different magic energy output and characteristics, much like modern two-wheeled or four-wheeled transportations in the future. Their brains are programmed with a war horse's mind as the basis, but I put in various functions in addition, to react to a variety of situations a horse can't. Their musculature are pure mechanical engineering, cogs and gears and spires working together, frictionless due to the runes I've carved into them, so I don't have to chant complicated spells for their every movement. The usage of Magecraft has carved out nearly 40% of its weight compared to an equivalent pure metal creation, and the aforementioned runes has only strengthened and increased their efficiency even more.

After the space-saving are done and dusted, I have even installed several weapons for personal use as well, mimicking a certain modern games series where the protagonist has swords installed in his bike. Currently, I've only modified them for my and Mordred's weapons, but maybe I'll have to engineer Cecilia's preference to one of them real soon.

While Cecilia is still gawking, Mordred and I have already mounted ours. Incidentally, the Clockwork Steed has hauled the bags onto its flesh-and-blood counterparts, thanks to my advanced programming. A few prods here and there, and the clasps and ropes are tightened nicely onto the saddle.

Before Cecilia can delay us any further, I deactivate it and stow it inside my bag.

Finally, Cecilia hops onto her horse's back and sets off alongside us.

What an incredible morning it has become.

* * *

Guinevere shivers as the cold night wind blows across her body.

The weather is quite good... for Britain, at least. The night sky is clear, showcasing the brilliance of the moon and the stars to all who desires to enjoy them. There's nothing of the normal sort, where heavy rain and foggy air often permeates the air. The wind is a bit strong for her liking, but that's partly due to her standing position, which is on a high balcony inside a tower, adjacent to her private chambers.

It's becoming more and more of a habit for her to wait out here in the open. Maybe it's a woman's intuition, or her inborn personality which often includes worrying for other people, but she can't just sit still and sleep sound inside her room if her loved ones is out there, risking their lives. She learned to cope with the lack of sleep long ago, since Altria started her campaigns, and now when Lancelot is often sent to remote places for some obscure missions.

It's a habit the king knows well, and as such it becomes more and more of a risk waiting for him like this. Altria dismisses it as her natural kindness to worry about her knights, but the guilt inside Guinevere's heart for betraying the image the king and everyone else have about her still causes it to throb uncontrollably. Fortunately, years in the court has taught her how to conceal her emotions from prying eyes, however, it doesn't make it any more comfortable.

Suddenly, something thin and soft wraps around her shoulders, making her jump in surprise.

An adorable face hovers in her field of vision.

"My apologies," Altria smiles, "for startling you."

"A-Ah, no, no," she waves her hand in denial. "It's... I'm just deep in thought, that's all."

The king adjusts the long shawl around her to encase her better. "This wind isn't good for your body. We should come inside."

Guinevere shakes her head. "No, maybe a bit longer..."

She looks down, wishing her betrothed to just walk away and leave her alone. It's a rude gesture, especially when one consider the opposite party, but through all the years their relationship has grown far too casual for Altria to chastise her for it. However, being the stubborn girl Altria is, she doesn't yield to that weak excuse.

She pulls on Guinevere's hand gently.

"It's better to wait inside near Merlin's report, no? His device should provide us with more up-to-date data, anyway. There's no need for you to wait out here for everyone."

A small silence ensues, but eventually, Guinevere relents and lets herself be pulled inside. Altria's small hand feels hot, almost scorching her skin, although that is due to Guinevere's paling complexion or Altria's magic energy unconsciously flowing is unknown. Even without using Prana Burst, the king is still far stronger than her untrained arm, so it's futile to physically resist the pull.

In the end, after a few minutes reading the data logger from Merlin's new device, Guinevere decides to retire for the night, leaving Altria to accompany her while still reading some reports in their chamber.

However, the king's mind isn't on the reports in her hand, but to the queen sleeping besides her.

She has mentioned the term 'everyone', simply to put Guinevere's jitters at rest. She knows about which individual she's actually waiting on and yearning for: the adulterer Lancelot.

She uses that term not in a negative way. She knows of her own shortcomings is the cause for this... waywardness between Guinevere and Lancelot, and so she has no intention to rebuke them. Her own guilt is eating her conscience, disabling her usually decisive mind and ruthless heart.

To be a king, she discarded everything, whether it's her kindness, her sympathy, her doubts, her humanity, or her desire and capability as a woman. As soon as she disregarded Merlin's warning and pulled Caliburn out of that stone, those aspects of her, and quite a few more, are sealed away due to her own wish to be the perfect king. A king does not become impartial due to his own judgement. A king does not drown himself in worldly desires or troubles. A king does not consider himself a human being, merely a tool to bring his kingdom to greater heights and purpose.

All of those means she is incapable of creating happiness for the people close to her.

The people who has also sacrificed their own dreams to support her along the way are doomed by her own choices. Guinevere, Merlin, Kay... all of them.

She doesn't blame Guinevere. She knows her queen has left much behind to accompany her to the throne, just in order to keep public appearances. A king who doesn't have a partner will be considered infertile and ineffective, someone who doesn't think about the continuation of the kingdom. Hence, Guinevere stepped up, even if they can never sire a child together.

Merlin has tried to help once, in his own playful manner. Growing a male appendage on Altria's body, he experimented on the possibility to have an heir to the throne. Of course, given the suddenness and unannounced-type of the experiment, Altria wasn't amused and demanded it to be undone.

On hindsight, even if it's only to provide Merlin with a comic relief, she shouldn't be too quick in dismissing the idea. Only now, with Guinevere's heart torn by guilt with Lancelot and her own regrets, does the idea sounds meaningful. It's an irony the only one who can see it for what it's worth is her enemy, Morgan.

Guinevere herself is a woman, and she doesn't possess the integrity Altria grew up with. It's understandable that she will eventually give in to her desires, as all human beings do. Altria doesn't really understand it from a personal point of view, but if she shifts her viewing glass to a third person's, then what Guinevere does can only be blamed on the king.

She carefully sifts the documents, taking care not to destroy them due to her personal feelings.

' _Stop. Don't think with your heart. Cool your head.'_

So, now what?

Exposing Guinevere and Lancelot's relationship will do no one any good. Sure, the truth is preferable, and as a king, she musn't be impartial to anyone, even her own wife and trusted friend. If she doesn't do it, then along the years someone else will catch wind of it, and it'll become an even messier situation. There's some lingering pain in her heart after being betrayed, however, that emotion has been forcefully neutered by her own mind. It's a stupid idea to rule a kingdom following her own impulses, so she does not.

Still, even after so much deliberation, her sense of guilt overcomes her.

Their relationship blossomed in the first place because she couldn't give them the happiness they deserved. The happiness of a man and a woman, and the happiness of a queen and knight, both of them were cast aside to join Altria in her pursuit of a dream, of an everlasting utopia.

If they can both find happiness now with each other, what right does she have to take it away and destroy it?

' _Just leave them alone. As long as no one else knows, it'll be fine.'_

Right?

* * *

 **No, really, you've read the Author's Note above, no? So review!**


	8. Woeful Morning

**What a sad few days for the sporting world. I'd like to dedicate this chapter to those who lost their lives for doing what they love the most, the GOAT Muhammad Ali and Moto2 rider Luis Salom. Their skills and strength will always be displayed in our heart forever. Rest in peace. I wish I can continue to emulate their passion and tenacity not only in writing, but also in my life.**

 **This chapter will look slightly different, because the Story Uploader in my account just suddenly decides to stop working. This is a copy-and-paste job, hopefully done well enough to your standards. Several new OCs also make their appearances, based on the real legends and stories of King Arthur.**

 **Now, I don't feel like writing a long Author's Note after that sad note. I just want to say thank you for everyone who has stayed with me this far, and welcome for the new readers who just got hooked by my less-than-perfect writing. I hope you will enjoy this chapter, and many more after this, to the end. I know that journeys aren't meant to last, but I hope the walk is worth the effort. Enjoy, and review if you like it.**

 **Disclaimer: TYPE-MOON rarely does obituary like this, no?**

* * *

His cheeks feel hot.

The knight, Lancelot. The one said to be the greatest of them all, for his skills, intelligence, eloquence, and physical prowess, is running away like a madman. He runs, runs, and runs, not caring he's still wearing his full-body armor which is scrubbing the skin off his feet. He can no longer feel the pain of his legs or his lungs, when his mind is so overwhelmed by his destroyed heart.

His cheeks feel hot, but the cause is unclear to him. It matters not whether it's due to his tears flowing non-stop or the still-fresh slap mark on it, for all he wants to do is run away.

Run. Run to abandon all that hurt him.

He's not running away like madman.

He's running _because_ he is already mad.

It's not a slow, gradual descent to insanity. Oh, no, his pain results in a change far more than that. A person can slowly recedes into himself of herself, as if regressing in mentality, or, in layman's terms, go crazy. A number of actions can cause this, namely, torture and imprisonment. A myriad of days spent under stress and extreme conditions will wreak havoc to a person's body first, then the mind and soul will follow suit.

On the other hand, incredibly sudden shocks, both physically and mentally, will cause the mind to become catatonic at first. The first stage: denial.

Then, the body will try to justify the mind's condition, usually with a lot of shouting and erratic actions. The second stage: anger.

The mind and the body in disarray, the remaining member of the human trinity, the soul, then seeks consolation from a higher concept of being. Human beings starts to pray and swear allegiance to their gods, desperate to bargain their place in life, just a slight adjustment to position themselves in a better place. The third stage: bargaining.

The fourth and fifth stage, depression and acceptance, has never developed inside his mind. His sanity has long gone from the second stage.

How could they not?

The love of his life, wrong and sinful as it is, has rejected him.

How could she? His dear, dear Guinevere...

 _'_ _I have never betrayed you!'_ His head screams.

 _'_ _So, why... why do you... do this to me...?!'_

It all began at that moment, inside that damn castle...

* * *

It was supposed to be a routine visit.

King Arthur's rapid rise in power has caused quite a bit of an upheaval in the pecking order inside the British Isles. The island, ever since Queen Boudica repelled the Roman invaders, was run amok by warmongering lords taking advantage of the Empire's decline in power. There was a rumor of an inheritor of her great bloodline, but the chosen leader never materialized to take control. And so, for two centuries, the life inside the would-be Kingdom was hectic at best, and chaotic at worst.

Altria, having discarded her future as a normal girl, fought and won against all those warlords. However, her meteoric rise in power also meant hard-fought resistances across the land. Her father, Uther Pendragon, already possessed a large domain in the west of the island, and with the sea to her back, Altria expanded her territory to the north and south at the same time. Such tactics could only be achieved with sufficient communications and control over the defeated lands, making sure there would be no further revolt.

The land of Corbenic was one of such surrendered domains, with King Fisher wisely cooperated peacefully with the new, powerful ruler, avoiding unnecessary bloodshed for the citizens. Located quite close to the original border of Uther's domain, it's not even more than a fortnight's journey from Camelot by horseback.

Altria has sent him to investigate the reasons behind Fisher's sporadic reports. She has established many protocols, including frequent reports of the matters of state by express couriers. Camelot has a section full of dedicated analysts and recorders specifically to sort and interpret these thick manuscripts full of letters, so that the land could be managed as efficiently as possible.

Usually, a report came every week. Considering the travel time, the report from Corbenic will be three weeks late, including the writing time by Fisher's record keepers, but using the courier system improved by Merlin, the lag was cut down to ten days only. A fortnight's journey made in two days, give or take. What an amazing system, taking advantage of Magecraft to lay the foundations, but not so overt that normal people could learn of the existence of Magecraft itself.

Therefore, an absence of report for three consecutive weeks, following a sporadic trend of the last three years, roused the king's suspicion. She still hasn't considered mutiny at that point, as Fisher was a loyal subject, and so she sent Lancelot to investigate. Due to the recent uproar Gawain was investigating, the Knights of the Round Table has been instructed to hold station, even if some of them were working on a conquest. Lancelot was stationed in Camelot, ready to deploy at any time.

The moment he arrived at the Castelle Dinas Bran, he immediately knew something was off.

There was an intense trace of magic energy in the air. Corbenic has a high-quality leyline passing right through the castle, with the stand-in court magi Dame Brusen attending to any magical activities in the area. The Dame was a relative of the king, and one of the more promising magi under Merlin's watch. She didn't study under him, but merely received a few pointers to her family's main style of Magecraft. Her skills were enough to earn her a recommendation from the great magus himself to her current position.

However, the magic energy around the air was of such a chaotic state it couldn't be possibly be tended to properly. He has never met Dame Brusen personally, but from the words around the town, she's one of those serious types, so the condition then was inconsistent with the reports. If there was a trouble this massive, the fact Fisher has decided against informing the court in Camelot could be considered a crime of negligence, and could be punished accordingly.

He has little talent regarding Magecraft, but if he could feel the disturbance this strongly, how could the people around the castle still walked about normally? The town scene wasn't much different than anything he's ever seen, and the eyes of the townsfolk weren't empty or clouded, as the case of an evil magi brainwashing the normal populace. The people were going about their lives normally, with nothing suspicious going about.

He decided to go straight to the castle to confront Fisher. If anything dark was going on, it'd be a stupid decision to go face the perpetrator on his own, without back-up. He's confident in his skills, but facing against a rogue magus backed with an entire army of a local landlord was still unfavorable to him. However, he needed to get a glimpse of the truth, no matter how inconsequential.

When he got to the wall perimeter, the situation was odd.

'Odd', meaning the condition there wasn't exactly as he has predicted.

The guards, seeing one of the Knights of the Round Table visiting their quarry, were very excited and welcoming to their idols. Their body language was similar to the knights he has met across his travels, which was to say... infatuated, to put it into words.

They weren't hostile or suspicious towards him, which must be the case if they were planning something antagonistic towards him. There were no hidden killing intent, no glint of a drawn blade, no horses neighing in deployment.

He was _kindly_ escorted to the main hall, reserved for state guests for an audience for the king. However, after some diplomacy, he managed to convince all of them to leave him alone, and that he would like to perform a surprise inspection without any interference from the king or his knowledge.

Fortunately, he was left free to roam under the guise of a normal guard. He has been given a pouch by Merlin specifically to store his equipment, and he borrowed this set from the guard station under the same excuse. He started his rounds by inspecting the grounds, trying to spot any changes to the original blueprints of the place. There's been several updates throughout the years, but all of it has been noted down on previous reports.

So far, so good. Nothing major has changed, apart from some inconsequential small storage buildings. Of course, as a precautionary measures, he acted on a logistics check. Founding nothing, he made his way to the inner area, where the main court and living quarters were.

Standing on top of a vantage point, he took in the view, slowly enjoying the majesty of Castelle Dinas Bran. It's not as big or extravagant as Camelot, but the sea view it had was incredible. He arrived just a few hours after noon, meaning now a glorious, gold-red sunset bathed his body, reflecting its color on the calm, dark-blue waves. The sounds of sea birds were noticeably absent, because it's not yet their breeding season, but he could spot a few in the distance, flying lazily to scan for preys.

He felt a strange sense of camaraderie with them.

Night fell, and the torches were lit.

He still found nothing important that could cause the phenomena he encountered when he stepped into town. He's searched the mess halls, communal dining room, troops training centers, the servant living quarters, and he found nothing important which could cause such phenomenon he encountered as he stepped into town. His heart grew increasingly heavy, since the answer to his question was unquestionably be in the inner sanctum.

The place where King Fisher and his family lived.

It's a place reserved for chamberlains and ministers, certainly not someone who's wearing a normal guard's clothing like him could enter. However, wearing his full credentials would only attract unnecessary attention, so he was in a dilemma. Should he take another disguise, or go full-frontal?

No, alerting whoever caused the disturbance would be a bad idea, easy and practical as it sounded. Or worse, he could be detected already, and the culprit simply lured him into the inner chambers to assassinate him. Either way, proceeding with caution should be the way to go.

He returned to the previous servant quarters through the back, rummaging some clothes to wear. Finding the appropriate one, he went back and blended in with the cleaners, trying to hide his trained body movements from the prying eyes of the knights patrolling. He spent his time peeking through some of the guest's quarters, but there's nothing unusual to be found.

 _"_ _...ve ...e"_

His body jerked, tensing in anticipation of an attack. However, after a few seconds, nothing came, and he dismissed the sound as a part of his imagination.

 _"_ _Please..."_

His feet stopped moving.

 _"_ _Please... save me... anyone..."_

Those words were nothing more than scant whispers, so faint it could be dismissed as his brain playing tricks. The words didn't echo through the halls, but it reverberated through his head like the speaker was right beside him. The plea seeped down into his core, speaking directly to his heart.

No, there's no need to rationalize the options. The words might scream 'traps', but as a knight, and a man, Lancelot du Lac would not abandon this voice.

He rushed forwards, not thinking about any directions at all. He simply followed where the sound carried his feelings, through the halls and intersections, ignoring the alarmed looks of the guards and the maids. Even if they wanted to stop him, none of them was skilled enough to do so, he mused.

He walked briskly, which ended up in a mild jog. Eventually, he sprinted full-force, with the voice calling him louder and louder inside his head. Closer still, the voice sounded to be female, but it's hoarse, signifying her current strength. The thought of her dying before he got there spurred his steps even faster, his pride as a knight not allowing him to arrive even a moment too late.

After what felt like eternity, he arrived at the source of the voice.

It was a dark chamber, large enough to house several orcs he once fought. The ceiling was curved high, though the exact size wasn't clear due to the lack of light. The chamber was sparse, with nothing at all resembling any sort of furniture. Though, regarding the function of the room, any living amenities would be wasted.

In the middle of the room, laid a glass coffin.

Inside it was a woman suspended in what seemed to be bubbling water. The liquid was crystal clear, allowing him to see the state of her horrific injuries even from the entrance. However, even though there's no artificial light, the water still shone with a soft aquamarine glow, bathing the room with blue light, just enough for him to watch his steps.

Clearly, this wasn't something done by normal men.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the woman's state-of-being. The water seemed to be scalding her entire body, keeping her in eternal pain of being boiled alive. Her expression was heart-breaking, etched firmly in a scream, as if trying to shout out her pain into the world, just to lessen the agony she felt. Her body was cooked firm, with exposed and blistering flesh burning and closing repeatedly, ensuring her survival through the torture.

He immediately examined the coffin, trying to find any weakness he could use to break it open. His concentration raised to a combat level, he searched every nook and cranny of the smooth surfaces and edges, ignoring the gathering of footsteps behind him. There's no killing intent or danger coming from behind, he could feel it. Therefore, he focused on solving the task at hand.

After a few minutes, he failed.

There was nothing he could use as a leverage to destroy it with brute force, nor he could find any clues or reference to safely dismantle the coffin. The bubbling noise grated his ears, popping and churning away, urging him to hurry and save the woman. He resisted the urge to bash his head onto the glass covers, hoping to find another solution to the problem, but to no avail.

He did, however, recognize the maker of the coffin.

That damned Morgan le Fay put the woman inside this... torture device, and left her to forever suffer under her curse.

The only good news he could think of was the possibility of her demise, as reported by Merlin. No evidence has been collected yet, but he hoped in his heart that bitch has truly bit the dust, to avoid anyone else suffering like this.

He looked behind, to the small army of knights baring their swords at the intruder. He realized way too late his disguise was in tatters, and only a wave of a hand from King Fisher stopped them from stabbing him in the back. They radiated no hostility, seemingly still didn't recognize him or consider him an enemy of the state; to them, he's merely just another eccentric who's trying to free their beloved princess. However, their swords weren't sheathed even after the king's motion, keeping guard to any suspicious movements.

To the side of the king, he spotted a mature woman in her thirties.

She was beautiful, in the manner elder woman seemed charming to younger men. She radiated a sense of calm, reflected in her round face, with only a trace of chicken feet on the side of her eyes. She, like the others, was alarmed, but only a slightly agape mouth betrayed her expression. With her brown hair and eyes, she was a picture of a village's best flower. She wore a normal thick single braid on her scalp, and a casual wear he often saw in some remote villages made out of simple tunic. Hardly something a woman would wear in front of a king.

Her peculiarity immediately clued him to her identity.

She stepped forwards closer to his kneeling position, before saying, "Sir Lancelot, it's our honor to host you in this castle, but don't you think this entrance ceremony is a bit... conspicuous?"

He bitterly smiled. "Dame Brusen, I presume?"

"Correct."

"Ah... can you please cancel your spell? I shall cooperate fully."

"Denied."

And so, news would spread of a thief breaking into the castle, stopped red-handed by the court magi.

* * *

"I see..." Lancelot mumbled.

He has just been briefed regarding the situation with Princess Elaine. Morgan spent some time as the court magi, a predecessor to Brusen, guiding Fisher to the province's current position. With that, the land didn't suffer any fighting between his forces and Altria's, which would certainly cause ruin to his former kingdom, now degraded to simply a large province of the Kingdom.

It was Morgan who suggested for the former king to swallow his pride, and protect the citizens instead to showcase him as a good ruler. This resulted in a tremendous surge of popularity with the people, forcing Altria to spare him and relegate him as the overseer for the area. In effect, his role was similar to that before the King's uprising, only now he has to compile reports and answers to a superior.

Why Morgan had a stroke of goodwill was still unknown. What they knew was after Corbenic joined the Kingdom, Morgan began to seclude and distance herself from court matters, before finally leaving unannounced after cursing Elaine, Fisher's daughter. The former king suspected her target was Elaine all along, so the magi endured all those years under Fisher to strike at the perfect time. Indeed, after the annexation, the influx of soldiers and increased security by Camelot's forces have made the environment in the Castelle rather lax.

Of course, such flimsy hypothesis didn't stick with Brusen or Lancelot, but they both kept their mouth shut. One, reduced in power as he was, Fisher was still their superior. If he wanted to believe that theory to keep his sanity and passion, then so be it. Second, they couldn't suggest any new solution, even after Lancelot examined the evidences and records.

Now, in the strategy room, the topic shifted to how to release Elaine from the coffin.

"If I may be rude, Dame, what sort of methods have you tried?" Lancelot asked. "No need to be specific. I know you magi are sensitive to your craft, so a rough explanation will do."

Brusen nodded. "I've tried to deconstruct the spell matrix, but, shamefully, with my skills there was nothing I could do. The spell was dynamic, constantly adapting itself to any attempts made to unravel it." She lowered her head slightly, frustrated her shortcomings has been revealed. "Any offensive techniques I could perform can't even put a scratch on its surface, much less break it open. I suspect the water itself is also enchanted, strengthening the glass exterior over time."

He closed his eyes in exasperation. A headache started to build near his temples, so he pressed his thumb over them.

"So I've come far too late," he sighed. "Why didn't you report this? I'm sure Sir Merlin would have some more ideas if he heard of this."

Fisher interjected to save his court magi from further disgrace. "It's due to my incompetence... Morgan left more surprises behind, and I spent all my energy to keep those from rampaging through the lands. My report has been rather lacklustre because of this. We simply couldn't spend the manpower to reach for help."

"Mass hypnosis?"

"Correct, Sir Lancelot," Fisher nodded. "Key ministers of mine started revolting left and right, and subduing them and their forces with minimal harm was difficult."

"I understand."

Having prior experience against Morgan, the knight knew how hard it was to fight against his own crazed comrades, who couldn't feel pain or fear. Fisher, with his limited resource, must've had it even worse, and weariness was evident across the men behind him.

He stood up. With all the eyes around following his movements, he said, "Follow me. I may be able to do something of use."

As they walked back towards the previous chamber, Lancelot racked his brain. Or, more precisely, he's trying to make his brain calm his heart down, to prevent his hand from shaking. What he was about to do was reckless and plain idiotic, but it had a reward worth the risk.

He had in his hand his beloved sword, Arondight.

It's a sword equal to his King's Excalibur, to the point they both could be called sister swords. The Fairy Letters carved on the blade started glowing alongside his excitement, empowering his following strike. It's main power was more defensive in nature, compared with Excalibur.

As a sword which embodied glory and victory, Excalibur was a weapon of mass destruction, serving to vanquish all enemies who stood in its way. Arnodight, on the other hand, embodied eternity and the unfading light of hope, making it unyielding, resolute, and independent. It served to protect everything which threatened everything dear to the wielder, and became invincible and unbreakable.

Henceforth, smashing it onto an enchanted glass prison probably wasn't it's strong suit, but it's the next best thing after calling King Arthur Pendragon all the way here to use her holy sword. However, Arondight was in no way a lesser weapon than Excalibur, and its own conceptual weight was similar, clearly more than that glass coffin.

Amidst horrified looks and alarmed faces, he simply lifted the sword and swung it down with his full strength.

The swing wasn't a reckless movement, rather, for a knight of Lancelot's caliber, every little motion was fully ingrained to his muscle memory, executed by a perfectly honed body. This harmony between body, mind, and weapon created a smooth downwards line, so thin the coffin didn't seem to be cut at all.

Slowly, the boiling water started to seep from the hairline fracture and dripped to the floor.

As if on cue, the coffin shattered into glass dust with a loud noise.

Lancelot jumped back, avoiding the enchanted water from touching his feet, with Fisher's knights and Brusen following suit. Immediately, Brusen stopped her retreat and ran towards Princess Elaine, checking her body nervously.

She barked towards the men, "Towels, hurry! Now! Take the curtains too!"

Hurried voices resounded through the masonry of the walls, and Lancelot stood to the side to let them work.

The Princess's condition was, frankly, terrible. He hasn't seen such atrocities since Altria used to burn her enemies who were too stubborn to surrender. The skin was completely charred and cooked clean off the flesh, with only a few parts has begun healing by Brusen's treatment. The flesh looked eerily like what those barbarians up north did to their enemies, which was skinning them. Only his experience in dealing with them curbed his desire to vomit, which couldn't be said with a few of the knights.

Soon, they managed to carefully wrap Elaine's body after Brusen's managed to stabilize her. They gingerly carried her to the magus's Workshop for further treatment, leaving the rest of the soldiers to clean the mess.

He shifted his line of sight to one side, where King Fisher was kneeling, dumbfounded and with tears rolling down his cheeks, mouth agape.

Even Lancelot couldn't contain his satisfied smile for another one he's saved.

* * *

"Oh, God... what have I done?"

Unsteadily, Lancelot stumbled backwards, away from the edge of the bed where a beautiful woman slept. If one could see through the dark room, one would observe Lancelot's already fair complexion turned paler and paler, blood draining rapidly from his face from shock. He didn't care about his lack of clothing, merely focused on the deed he just committed.

The sheets on the bed stirred, as the lady woke up from her slumber.

"Mmm... Sir Lancelot?" A clear, melodious tone called for him, albeit slurred by sleepiness.

Rubbing her eyes, Elaine rose from the bed. The blanket slid from her upper body, leaving him to see her naked form. However, rather than covering herself up in embarrassment, she stretched and curved her back, showing her shapely breasts and narrow hips at him seductively. Even with only moonlight dimly lighting the room, his trained eyes could clearly make out the shape of the tips of her breast, the dip of her navel, the sweat rolling down her stomach...

The only thing he felt right now wasn't arousal, but pure disgust at himself and the woman for what they have done.

She slipped off the covers and stepped towards him. Instinctively, he stepped back, intent on keeping as much distance as he could from her.

"Why so early?" She asked, a smile in her voice. It seemed she still hasn't sensed Lancelot's feelings or read his body language, so she moved closer. "Let's go back to bed..."

Her outstreched hand was slapped aside by Lancelot.

Her shocked expression was hidden under a veil of anger clouding his eyes.

"Stay away from me! You... wench!" He spat out, shifting himself to an intimidating gesture.

He pointed a finger at her, "You... what have you done to me?! This... I can't..." His body shook, and in a fit of madness, he grabbed both her shoulders and slammed her into the wall, ignoring her cry of pain.

"ANSWER ME! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

His taller frame meant he couldn't see her face when her head was lowered. Her long hair was also covering any sort of expression, and after a few seconds of silence, his anger built up. He was ready to strike her, in order for her to spill out the truth what trickery has she done to him. There's no way he'd sleep with another woman other than Guinevere, especially if he didn't love her. So... what was it? Magecraft? Poison? No matter what, he swore, he'd get to the bottom of it-

A sob broke out from under his arms pinning her.

Slowly, surely, a few more sobs started to choke out of her throat, before a dripping sound started to echo from the floor, courtesy of her tears. Her body trembled, the sensation clear from his palm, though whether it's out of pain or fear he didn't know.

Instinctively, his grip on her weakened. Raised as a knight, he couldn't bear see a woman cry so openly in front of him, even if she had tricked him to sleeping with her. Her sobbing became more and more intense, before she squeaked out a hoarse sound.

"What... what do you mean, Sir? I did not... do anything...! You're the one wh-who laid down with me, a-and..."

"Enough."

Even though he let her go, his anger never receded. A feeling of shame and fear started pouring into his heart, giving him urges to break something. No, now that his pride as a loyal man was shattered by this woman, he needed to find a way to erase this disgrace. As a Knight of the Round Table, there was no way a blemished person like him could return to court in Camelot, and he'd never see his lover again.

His hand reached for Arondight, left leaning against the wall near the bed.

His voice was grim and heavy.

"I have enough of your lies."

"N-No! I wasn't...!"

"I have someone waiting for me," he spat out. "We love each other, surpassing every hurdles to be together. And you... you have trampled over that. I can forgive slights towards myself, but this one... You've disgraced my bond with her!"

He closed his eyes, steeling himself for what he was about to do. There's no doubt in his mind the woman in front of him had seen Arondight, and her hand was desperately struggling with the door knob. It'd be a futile escape, since she had no way of outrunning the best knight in Camelot, backed with Magecraft or not.

"Do not worry," he said calmly. "After this, I shall take my own life as well. I cannot go back to her, so I might as well."

He unsheathed Arondight, its navy blue Fairy Letters glowing alongside the dark silver blade.

He swung, with the same accuracy and strength he used to free Elaine in the first place.

"So you would kill the _mother of your own child_?!"

The hysterical shout stopped his sword arm, millimeters away from her neck.

Her face was a mess, stricken with tears and sweat. The moisture wrecked her hair, already awry from waking up, and a few strands fell to the ground after Arondight went through them. Her eyes, blood-red from the tears, stabbed into his heart, causing him to feel like a thunderbolt had struck him.

His feet was frozen to the floor as the words sank in.

Arondight slipped from his hands, clattering and bouncing on the floor. The loud noise never registered in its wielder's ears, since he stood still, mouth agape in shock.

"You... you lie!" He yelled, desperately wishing for his sentence to be true.

She held a hand over her stomach, saying weakly, "This child... have been long fortold by my father's sages. This boy... yes, this _son_ of yours was destined to be born form our consummation."

She took a step forward. Lancelot felt as if he's pushed from all directions by invisible walls, and his vision shifted, as the room they're in got smaller and smaller to squeeze him to death. Her steps were heavy, carrying far more conviction than before.

She reached out to his arm, pulling it so his palm overlaps her womb.

"His name... is Galahad." Her voice trembled in the cocktail of emotions she's feeling. "Will you... end him as well? Cutting his destiny before he's even born?"

Every word was a sword stabbing deep into his soul, twisting the wounds horribly along the way. Her tears poisoned his mind, corroding it from within, pounding it like a cursed hammer. His sword arm dropped like it was made out of lead, powerless to even lift a finger against her.

"Son... a son..." He could only mutter those words hoarsely.

"Yes, your son!" She shrieked. "He's your son! Please... at the very least, won't you love him?"

"Son..."

His voice got quieter and quieter, until Elaine couldn't hear it anymore. His head hung low, obscuring her vision of him as his long bangs covered his upper face. Then, as subtle as the rogue wind, his body trembled greatly, and she took a step back in fear.

He looked at her... with a crazed expression on his face.

She's seen plenty of those expression in court, before she was confined in that coffin, on the insane assassins sent to kill her and her father. That was the face of someone who'd do unspeakable things, who'd break every taboo, who'd cross every line, just to sate their... whatever they desire. The look in his eyes reminded her of those people, of a wild dog looking at a piece of meat.

"Ha... ha-ha..."

He laughed.

"A-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"

His laugh shattered the stillness of the night.

He clutched his stomach in pain, then grabbed a fistful of his hair and tore them out, seemingly in frustration. However, he's still laughing, and kept laughing away, as if shouting away all of his heart's burden. Instinctively, Elaine backed herself onto the wall, a hand guarding her stomach from what could she imagine as a dangerous situation.

"Kukuku... Hehehe..."

Something inside him snapped.

Without looking back, he took Arondight and jumped out of the window, not caring he's on a very high tower. A few bangs and clatters could be heard by Elaine, and then the surroundings became quiet again.

Her hand felt the cold floor permeating through her skin. Unknowingly, her knees had given way, leaving her unable to stand and simply sat there on the corner, shivering in fear, yet also confused to what's just happened.

* * *

Hurried footsteps echo across the intricate masonry of Camelot.

With a bang, the large double doors opens, letting King Arthur Pendragon through to sit on her designated place in the Round Table. In concert, all the Knights of the Round Table rise to give a salute.

Unlike the previous meeting, the Table is actually full this time, save for one empty spot. Judging from the faces of the Knights present, they have all hurried to this place as soon as they received the emergency summons from the King, some even still panting from exertion. Also, none of the Knights' retainers are present, signifying the level of this meeting.

Altria waves her arm, allowing all of them to sit down.

"I will start with a terrible news."

The air freezes in tension, waiting for the King's next words.

"Lancelot has left us."

Kay opens his mouth, but realizes he has nothing important to say. Some of his colleagues also begin to cause an unrest, but at the end they all calm down, waiting for the King to continue.

Closing her eyes as if summoning her strength, Altria continues.

"The report comes from Fisher in Corbenic. He stated in his report that many of his soldiers saw Lancelot running away from the palace, leaving his armor and horse behind. The words he used were 'wildly running' and 'loud screams' to describe Lancelot's departure."

While the copies of the reports are still being distributed, Altria speaks, "Fisher sent a party to chase him, trying to calm him down and ask the knight's problem. However, Lancelot butchered them all, then disappeared without a trace. Our spies still hasn't found him or news of his whereabouts, which is why I'm summoning you all here."

Waving her hand to cut off one of her knight, she continues, "This is a matter of state importance. If he's brainwashed, captured, or in any way turned against us, he will be a danger to the nation. I myself care for him very much, as much as I care for every one of you, and therefore I beseech you..."

She looks straight into each and every one of her Knight's eyes, and says, "I order you, in the name of King Arthur Pendragon: Capture him and bring him here for judgment!"

A unanimous salute answers her.

"Sir, yes Sir!"


	9. Mirror to the Past

**Hey, we meet again, guys! As always, the first one is a thank you for all of you who've spent (not wasted) your time reading my story, and even more to those who've reviewed, followed, and favorited it. For a certain someone who has written me a really thorough review, props for you. I don't have the time to reply to it before now, so I'll just do it this time, 'kay? This also will answer some of the other reviewer's question.  
**

 **Noah Thomson & others: Please check out the new entry in the Glossary below the story.**

 **Right, now that's done, I want to announce that I've repaired the last hideous patch-job of the previous chapter. It's now complete with new line breaks, so please check it out. And no, I'm not going to rant about Brexit, because the world has done enough of that stuff. What I want to rant about is one of my favorite show, Top Gear.**

 **One phrase: Don't watch it. Or, at least, don't watch the parts with Chris Evans talking. Then everything's fine.**

 **Jeremy, Richard, and James, I'm waiting eagerly for your new show.**

 **Now, read, review, and enjoy!**

* * *

"Aahhhh... Ugh..."

Moans escape from Mordred's mouth as she lay down, floating on top of sky blue-turquoise water. Her body is stark naked, allowing the cool liquid to sooth every nook and corner of her body, already starting to heal her physical and mental fatigue. She feels worn out unlike never before, her mind and body both giving up on the hellish training regime.

After a while, she feels the surface of the water shifts, and her green eyes meet two chiseled obsidian orbs surfacing from the bottom of the waters.

Admittedly, at first, she jumped and screamed like a little child, but this Lady of the Lake is quite mischievous, even if she means well. After a few tries, Mordred has stopped being surprised, but this entry method is still being used by the Lady, Nyneve. Maybe it's a habit of hers, the homunculus mused? As always, a dweller from the Outside has a hard time making sense of the Insiders' logic.

Other than that, well... she's too tired to care, anyway.

She closes her eyes as a dull headache bangs inside her skull.

Slowly, a soft and smooth pair of hands encircles her torso, hugging her gently like a mother would to her child. She let her body relax into the embrace, deciding to fool herself at least this once and pretend the above analogy is true. Her true mother has... _dubious_ feelings towards her, at least from what she can glimpse through Shirou's and Lady Nyneve's memories, so just for this moments, she lets all her troubles go away, for she can never receive a true mother's love ever again.

More likely, Lady Nyneve is just letting her affections known. Beings like her tend to not give 'love', or rather how humans perceive it to be 'love', but give out other emotions or physical gesture. The Lady pats and strokes her head, like how she would to a pet or a child. Perhaps she can't differentiate between the two in the first place.

Playfully, Nyneve plays with Mordred's damp hair. It's damp with sweat, since even if she's submerged inside what seems like a lake, but the water merely suspends her without wetting her body. The embrace feels warm and sweet, much unlike Nyneve's hard and fiery appearance.

" **Now, now... Do not be so disheartened, child."**

"How can I not?" Mordred says bitterly. "This... is just impossible for me..."

She closes her eyes tightly, trying to forget the events of her training.

Shirou had brought them here, in order for her to recuperate. Personally, she didn't feel any worse after he healed her, but he explained it was just a stopgap measure, and she had to resolve the issue herself. Thus, they arrived at a save haven in Nyneve's domain, where Nimue's influence didn't reach.

After they arrived, they fell into the routine set by her teacher. Shirou would go and train Cecilia to substitute for her, and she'd train herself to control her dark side. With Nyneve's assistance, he hoped she'd overcome this trial successfully, and with that, become stronger.

' _Stronger...'_

Hmph, how foolish she must be for that word to entrance her in the past. She had thought strength was everything in order for her to achieve her dream, and yet, that dream was proven only as a desperate outlet after she impulsively left Shirou's care. She had thought she was doing the right thing and thinking the right ideas, when her decisions only brought ruin to everyone around her.

When she stepped into the lake to face her other self, she was afraid.

What if she failed? What if she lost? What if this part of her eventually consumed her, hurting everyone she held dear?

And her expectations were quite spot-on.

What awaited her was a person who looked exactly just like her.

In one look, however, she knew this was an individual who she could never get on equal terms with.

The clone's facial feature was exactly the same as her, but twisted in an arrogant sneer, looking down on her like trash on the side of the road. Then, its mouth turned to a menacing sneer, before it charged at her, swinging a mock-up of Clarent faster than she had ever done so.

Hurriedly, she brought Clarent up to parry the attack and use the momentum to counter, but it sharply changed direction, turning 90-degrees downwards and slashed sideways, aiming at her legs. She jumped back, but the retreat just gave it more room to build on its offense.

A thrust came towards her throat, faster than she could plan around for. Desperately, she used the flat of Clarent to block, but the strength knocked her neck and upper body backwards. Winded, she reacted just in time to dodge sideways as a vertical chop came from above.

She jumped backwards with Prana Burst, putting some distance between them.

However, it flew towards her, her face contorted to a feral expression, shaking her heart. Was this the real her? This savage and wild brute? Would she eventually become like this, if Shirou hadn't found her?

Her hesitation was answered by a wild swing, coming diagonally from her right.

' _Tch!'_

She stepped into the swing, and loading Prana Burst into Clarent, rotated the blade in place as both swords came into contact, knocking the clone's sword away. A further step and-

\- CRUNCH!

Her face was caved in by a hit from an armored fist.

' _Hand-to-hand?!'_

The blow broke her nose and blurred her vision, enough for the clone to stab her clean through her heart.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"

* * *

"Aahhhh... Ugh..."

Moans escape from Cecilia's mouth as she lay face-down to the earth.

In this position, she can really feel the difference between the world here and her homeland. The earth and plants all smell and feels funny, just... different than what she's used to. The ground doesn't crumble or give way to her steps, but it envelops and supports her leg wherever she goes. The flora and fauna are all scarily menacing and suspiciously beautiful, so she exercised extra caution against them.

But before she could take in the scenery, as soon as they arrived, Master Mordred went off to train herself, leaving Cecilia under the care of Grandmaster.

And boy, was he brutal.

No, she doesn't mean that in the literal sense. She likes the man; he's kind, smart, articulate, and more importantly, an excellent chef. A part of her harbors jealousy at his ability, but a few meals together with him and that thought has been banished completely. Cooking? Hmm, what's that?

To put it into simpler terms, he's exactly what she imagined as the perfect husband. His rugged good looks helps too, without being overwhelming. Of course, she has no plans to chase a romantic relationship with him, since she respects Master Mordred very much. In any case, it's clear that Grandmaster Shirou himself never sees her as more than a student, or worse, an immature child.

But this attitude allows her to spend more time with him, so it's not a bad thing.

However, the 'brutal' thing is his method of training.

At a glance, his menu can look tamer compared to what Master Mordred used to train her. It's just muscle and joints exercises, combined with sword techniques. There's no crazy cliff-walking or against-the-current-swimming or hot coals jogging, but it's just... way, _way_ more tiring.

His training doesn't involve movement very much, but by simply limiting body motion to a small area, her muscles are also given a tough workout, especially since she's not used to this kind of training. An intense stretching exercise from the Far East starts the day, with all its insanely flexible routines she has to follow. Then, a hundred sets of gymnastics follows, before stamina training in the end. He varies the training every other day to keep her on her toes, which culminates in sword training in the afternoon.

Therefore, her mornings are usually spent exhausted and in pain.

Thankfully, it's lunch time!

Salivating over today's menu, Cecilia sets the picnic necessities as Grandmaster fetches the food. Well, they're not on a holiday, per se, as every single day has been hell for her, but this one-hour rest means as much to her. Since Master isn't here, it means the portions will be bigger as well.

Come to think of it, hasn't she become a glutton?!

The thought of moderation dissipates from her mind as the smell of perfectly-roasted bread wafts into her nostrils. Yes, 'roasted', as in cooked over an open flame. It's one of her favorite dishes, and incredibly portable and robust, making it the perfect take-out meal. At least, according to her.

The basket Grandmaster brings over opens to a block of golden-brown crust, still in its perfectly rectangular block. Then, he pulls out a knife and slices through the loaf, revealing meat and vegetables stuffed within the bread, in an interpretation of a sandwich. He carefully cuts off thick slices, not too thin or it'll crumble, and hands a few onto Cecilia's plate.

The crunch of the exterior, combined with the fluffy bread interior greets her tongue, before an assault by the simply, but skillfully seasoned meat with black pepper and herbs punches her consciousness away. The last sensation comes from the fresh and sweet vegetables, dressed lightly to preserve their natural flavors, and brings her mind back to earth to enjoy another bite.

Meanwhile, Shirou is just watching on the side, amused, while biting down on his portions as well.

After another several minutes, the meal is wiped clean off, and they begin their cool-down period before sword training starts.

"Grandmaster?"

"Hmm?"

"You haven't stopped worrying since we started training here."

He smiles weakly, saying, "Yes, yes I am."

"I believe Master will succeed, no? There's no need for concern."

"You don't understand," he replies. "I've done something horrible to her."

Cecilia gasps. She knows Master Mordred is injured in some ways, mentally rather than physically, but this confession has really shaken her heart.

"You've... hurt her, in some way?" Cecilia asks, confused and curious. "This... I'm sorry, but I can't believe you, Grandmaster! You're always so kind and caring to both of us, and Master adores you! She's happy being near you, not hurting..."

He pats her head, smiling for her defense. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. However, it won't change the past."

He leans back.

"Perhaps... I should tell you about Mordred's past. It's due for too long, now." He turns towards her. "She still hasn't told you anything?"

She shakes her head. "Master didn't like talking about her origins. Well, at that time, I assumed it's normal for travelers to not indulge in others' questions... but, Grandmaster, is it fine talking about this without her being here?"

"It's fine. It's my side of the story I'm about to tell, not hers. That part will be up to her to say."

Cecilia's curiosity wells up, and she scoots closer to hear his voice.

"I killed her mother."

Those four words sound like thunderclaps in the clear skies.

"What."

"Are you surprised? It's true," he says, a twinkle of sympathy flashes through his eyes.

"A-Ah, but..." She stumbles her reply, her mind not really working well after that shock.

He sighs. "Her mother was... at best, a criminal who used human lives like livestock, and at worst, an evil magus who aspires to destroy the Kingdom."

Her mouth is agape at the revelation of the fact. Master's mother... was like _that_? The sweet, adorable, gluttonous Master was born from such a woman?

"That's why I targeted her," he continues. "After the battle, and her death, I found Mordred laying inside the magus's house."

He closes his eyes in remembrance. "She was innocent, like all newborns are. I couldn't bring myself to kill her... And then, after I read her mother's records, I decided to raise her as my own, hoping she'll surpass her mother in personality and ability.

"She's far more talented than anyone I've ever seen. I created her fighting style after analyzing her musculature and magic energy capacity, in order for her to optimize her style to her body and vice versa. I taught her everything necessary for her to become great... great at anything, whether it's a knight, a ruler, a swordswoman, the lot. I wish for her happiness, for her mother only planned for her demise.

"Ah, let me tell you more about her mother. Her name is Morgan le Fay, our King's sister."

"WHAT?!"

This time, Cecilia can't contain her surprise, and let out a shout.

"So... S-So Master's a princess?! Then why- Umph!"

A hand over her mouth curtails her excitement, reminding her they're still technically outdoors, even if they're in a safe haven.

"If you let me continue, I'll gladly answer, Cecilia," he lightly scolds her.

She hangs her head. "Yes, Grandmaster."

"Even though they're family, the King and Morgan weren't in good terms. It may sound strange to you how I know plenty of news from the court, but I have my trusted sources, and all of them stated the same thing. Their relationship could even be described as 'murderous', and Morgan has actively tries to bring ruin to the Kingdom a few times in the past, through assassinations and mass hypnotism. Thankfully, all those was prevented successfully.

"Back then, I received a piece of information saying Morgan was planning something else. I only grasped the full extent of it a few days after my battle with her.

"She planned on rising Mordred, a child sired from her and her brother's seed, and use her as the perfect assassin inside the court."

Cecilia holds a palm over her face in disgust, hearing that fact regarding the incest between the magus and the King. It's not uncommon for nobles and higher knights to marry inside their families, but that doesn't mean she can readily accept it. A communion should be between two consenting and loving parties, not just a tool for political gain.

"I raised her without telling her all of the above," he utters. "I didn't want her to be burdened by a life she didn't deserve, and I'd never allow her to feel the regret and despair such road would eventually bring. This was... speaking from experience."

Her head perks up.

"You've done such things, Grandmaster?"

He nods. "If you're talking about the regret and despair, then yes."

Her eyes shines with curiosity again, but Shirou simply smiles at her.

"That's a story for another time. For now, let's continue with our main topic, shall we?"

Both of them chuckle, sipping some water to clear their throats.

"But... in the end, she got curious, and pressed me for answers. I couldn't refuse her, and told her the entire truth." He sighs, smiling sadly. "However, she didn't take it well, and we ended up fighting. After a few unkind words, she left my care and ran off, not wanting me to use her the same way her mother planned to do."

"But you're different!" She exclaims. "Like I said, Grandmaster..."

He lifts a palm to interrupt her.

"She's right, Cecilia. Think about it. How was I different from her mother, when I indirectly shaped her path as soon as I decided to raise and teach her? I wished for her to be the savior of this Kingdom, not to bring it to its destruction, and prepared her accordingly. I played around with her destiny, setting it in stone as soon as she could think, in manners the same as her mother."

He smiles bitterly. "I was in the wrong, and I accept that. No person should have their fate determined by someone else, and it's one of the things Mordred hates the most."

He looks up to the clear sky above in contemplation.

"Indirectly, I also caused her current condition."

"Eh? How so?" She tilts her head quizzically.

"Her mother has imprinted her desires into Mordred, namely, desires for chaos and annihilation. However, I nurtured her to prize the opposite, that is, peace and joy, and the contrast between these two caused a conflict inside her mind, creating episodes of weakness like you witnessed."

She smacks a fist into her palm, nodding in understanding. "And you brought her here to reconcile that difference! Am I right? Right?"

At the puppy-dog enthusiasm, he grins, amused.

"Good thinking." He pats her head, and the motion Mordred likes so much is as well-received by Cecilia.

"Hopefully, she can decide which one is the real her. Whether it's the destiny-bound self, or the self yearning for freedom and glory... we can only wait now."

He pats his knees, standing up.

"For now, lift your sword."

At the promise of extreme pain, Cecilia groans.

* * *

Across the imaginary space, only one noise is resounding throughout.

"Akh... Ukh... Guh..."

Mordred gasps for air as her clone clamps down on her windpipe, her hands immobilized to her side, mangled and broken. It puts its entire body weight into the choke, and the pain from her lungs and her throat nearly causes her to black out. Her sight begins to flicker in and out, as her legs weakly tries to dismount her attacker, only to twitch uselessly.

As her consciousness fades away, the pressure disappears.

Her upper body heaves tremendously at the relief, and her freed throat gulps in air so much she starts to cough on it. She puts her hand on her throat, ensuring that yes, there's no murderous hand on it, and in fact, her hands have also returned to their original condition.

Her shoulders tremble as she tries to hold back the tears threatening to spill from her eyelids.

A cool palm rests on top of her head, caressing it gently.

She looks up, and the clone is gone, replaced by the presence of Lady Nyneve.

Suddenly, strength leaves her body, dropping her upper body straight onto the clear water of the Lake. Thankfully, the liquid filling it isn't water, or else she would've drowned instantly. Her body floats on top of the supposed surface, and even with her face-down position, she can still breath normally, though a little strained from the battle.

" **Why are you so flustered, child? It is a simple matter dealing with that** _ **thing**_ **, no?"**

"It's... not... Of course not...!" She struggles to arrange the words together, but finally manages to do just so.

" **You are taking it too heavily, child,"** Nyneve softly says. **"I have my own counterpart as well, and we get along tremendously. All you have to do is accept it as a part of you, not as an enemy..."**

She flips her body upwards to face Nyneve.

"It's always simple in theory, Lady Nyneve..."

She covers her eyes with her forearm.

"Against that... that _person_... I can't... I just can't..."

If Shirou sees her now, she'll jump off a cliff and drown herself. He's a natural worrywart, always spoiling her and catering to her whims to an extent. It's a side of him she finds adorable, and she loves him for it, just... Letting him see her sob and cry once is enough.

In front of that being, something which looks just like her but at the same time isn't her, her core is shaken. After crossing blades with it a few times, she comes to an understanding: that monster is everything she's not, an antithesis to the existence called 'Mordred'. And yet, it _is_ an existence called 'Mordred' all the same, merely a part of her buried deep inside her.

She no longer holds any anger towards Shirou for him wishing her to be a good knight. He means well, and back then, her immature mind snaps impulsively at him, but with deeper contemplation, it's much, much better than ending up being the same as that clone of hers.

The Knight of Treachery, Mordred Pendragon.

Just thinking that moniker sends shivers down her spine.

When she stared into its eyes... all she could see was hatred.

It hated everything around it, wishing for chaos and destruction wherever it went. Its blows were filled with one emotion and wish only: that of bloody revenge. It wanted to rampage for being thrown aside, for having its inheritance taken away from it just as it's ready to receive it. It loathed everyone, since everyone loathed it and nevery loved it as a person, a woman, or a knight.

All these dark emotions weighed its sword, far surpassing her own sword.

So, was it in the right after all? That Shirou's and her ideals of a peaceful world in the wrong, too weak to do anything? Will she become like that eventually, just a beast who slaughtered everyone close to her?

No, there's no way she can accept something like that as a part of her.

However, both Shirou and Nyneve have said it's that mindset which hindered her the most. She's here to assimilate that part of her into her strength, increasing her powers and eliminating the bouts of unconsciousness and nightmares she had before. This Lake has accumulated plenty of blessings from both Ladies, making it the perfect place to heal and rest, as well as to think about who she really is.

She doesn't even know the answer to that question.

Who is she, really? Is she a hero, like Shirou wanted her to be? Is she a killer, like Morgan wanted her to be? Is she a free woman, like who she wanted to be?

Then, what does she want to be? Either of those three?

She's sure Shirou will push her to strive for all three, if she so desires. He often cites that, referencing himself as a 'selfish and greedy' person for wanting to save everyone, regardless of how difficult it is. She has to admit, it's an admirable way of life, and she looks up to him so much because of his unrelenting drive to fulfill that.

No, stop thinking all that stuff. She needs to find a way to defeat that clone first.

Accepting it can come later.

Nyneve has gone quiet, simply putting Mordred's head on her lap and patting it non-stop. After the last few days, she's stop caring whether Nyneve actually does this out of habit or she truly cares for Mordred, but the action serves as a calming agent regardless. She looks up to the ethereal being, trying to glimpse what's going on inside the Lady's mind for clues.

Sensing her question, Nyneve smiles.

" **Do you have an idea, child?"**

"If I accept that... thing, as a part of me, what will happen to myself?"

" **Nothing you will not allow yourself."**

"What if I'm overtaken?"

" **That depends on your conviction, child."** Nyneve twirls Mordred's golden locks in the air, before saying, **"Is your heart so weak for it to defeat you? I think not. It is, after all, born from a piece of you, and it is just throwing a little tantrum for being neglected for so long."**

Silence ensues as Mordred digests Nyneve's advice.

Suddenly, she shoots up, and grins.

"I'll try one more time. Lady Nyneve, please begin!"

" **It is my pleasure."**

Mordred grits her teeth as a tremendous pressure is crashing down on her sword.

The clone is merciless in its attacks. Left, right, up, down... it attacks recklessly, without following any form or manner. It's a bizarre style of fighting, since what she learned from Shirou places importance in optimizing every move, not too strong, not too fast, just right and natural. However, this clone fights like a mad beast, not caring for proper sword techniques or even footwork.

It's just simple, plain savagery.

As she tries to parry the blow, the clone's hand shoots up and grabs her forearm, wrenching it open and sending a headbutt straight to her face.

Caught off guard, Mordred reels backward, stars in her eyes. Luckily, these few days has drilled the clone's movements and habits into her body, and a wild swing manages to parry the next attack and give her some breathing space.

Without waiting for her concentration to return, she launches forward with Prana Burst and rams the clone. It manages to defend with its own Prana Burst, only retreating a few feet, but eventually, the two enter a deadlock.

Their swords spark against each other, and their face gets the closest it's ever been, allowing the two to glare at each other's eyes.

' _How can I be so foolish? Missing the obvious like this...'_

As Mordred stares into her clone's eyes, she manages to capture another emotion, far deeper than previously.

Loneliness.

It's a familiar emotion, yet buried so far deep within her she can't feel it anymore. The people around her showered her with love and affection, numbing the pain of being discarded like a drug. She drowned herself in the intoxicating feeling of being loved and giving out love, trying her hardest to forget the pain behind.

"You've... been shouldering it all this time, haven't you?"

The clone widens its eyes, yet its strength doesn't falter.

"I'm sorry," Mordred says with sympathy in her voice.

The tone seems to have enraged the clone, making it attacking more furiously than before.

Strangely, her previous difficulty in dealing with its attacks is gone. Her breathing is calm, her judgment is sound, and her movements are crisp, anticipating each and every one of the clone's movements. It's as if she can predict its attacks like Shirou could with his Eyes, or more accurately, she can visualize herself being in its place, and therefore knowing what it would do next.

Unknowingly, her heart is getting closer and closer to the clone's, sensing its emotions and enduring it as if her own. Many master swordsman claim they can understand their opponents better than their loved ones merely by clashing blades. The so called 'empathy'... this is the first time she's ever felt it so strongly.

The clone's pain, anger, hatred, desires, loneliness... all of it, she takes in as her own.

Because those emotions come from her in the first place.

Now, she finally understands.

The clone... really is only a part of her.

Her sins, her nightmares, her fears... all of it, she pushed towards a deep dark place inside her soul. Over time, because these negative emotions has no outlet, it became a singular entity after simmering in the darkness of her soul for so long. After Pæga shared his powers, and his Origin with it, the shackles she put unconsciously against it was released.

The clone hates her... because Mordred has rejected it.

Taking in its emotions, she understands. The pain of being left behind, the pain of being repulsed by the only being who could understand it, the pain of being alone inside a dark space with no way out... the emotions she sealed burst forth like a dam.

The images she inherited from Shirou flashes through her mind rapidly.

The scenes of her being raised by Morgan le Fay. The scenes of her being appointed a Knight of the Round Table, without revealing her identity. The scenes when she took off her helmet in front of her father, only to be rejected from the throne. The scenes when she took Camelot hostage, killing hundreds in the process. And finally, the scenes of her father stabbing her clean through with Rhongomyniad and her swinging Clarent into Altria's flanks, killing them both.

These memories of what should be was the catalyst of her falling out with Shirou, and the source of all the negative emotions within herself. Back then, her emotions was a mess, a mix of dangerously self-destructive cocktail of intents, inadvertently birthing this being in front of her.

It thrusts at her, exactly the same motion Altria did.

For a moment, their figures overlaps in front of her eyes.

However, she simply smiles.

\- Schluck.

As the blade passes clean through her stomach muscles, she grabs the clone's arm to prevent it from moving.

"I'm... sorry..."

The words are so simple, yet they feel so heavy coming out of her mouth.

She reaches out with her other hand, and hugs the clone.

It jumps slightly at the contact, and begins to struggle.

From its plain black sword, crimson lines begin to form from the tip, rushing towards its body.

Morderd hugs it tighter.

"This is all I can say... Please..."

As the light grows brighter and brighter, the clone stops struggling, merely shifting weakly inside her arms.

"I accept you," she states. "So... please accept me as well!"

A red glow shines so bright Mordred has to close her eyes.

The moment she opens them, the clone is gone.

No, not gone.

She can feel its presence still. It's weak, but slowly, methodically, it's thumping away in its life... inside of her.

Her knees lose their strength, and her consciousness goes blank.

Moments before her face hits the floor, she manages to form a satisfied smile nonetheless.

* * *

Mordred wakes up to the feeling of warm cloth over her forehead.

Lately, it's been an annoyingly frequent experience, and she's keen to reduce the occurrence in the future. Normally, it's either Cecilia or Nyneve who's doing the boring cloth-changing job, but the pair of hands touching her face is more familiar than either of those two. A sensation she always cherishes, even when she isn't with him.

She opens her eyes, and sure enough, Shirou is there, his face serene and calm. He has his eyes closed, but she knows better than to assume he's sleeping, since he's able to counter her perfectly when she sneaked an attack at him in the past. His hands, meanwhile, keep patting her head, signifying his awakened state. The motion is enjoyable, much more than when Nyneve or someone else did it, since she felt they're just looking down on her when they pat her head. Shirou will never do that, and it's a form of genuine affection, so she's fine with it.

He opens his eyes, and smiles at her, making her heart skip a beat.

She blushed at the involuntary reaction, for she's trying to present herself as more mature than before to him, and getting embarrassed like a little girl won't help her image. Not that Shirou will care about such things, but these tiny details matter to her anyway. Cecilia also agrees, stating a man can't understand a woman's heart completely, so she can rope her student in for defense if he asks her someday.

"I'm proud of you," he states bluntly.

The praise causes a big smile to blossom on her face, but her body feels so tired, she can't reach up and kiss him in return.

Shirou, knowing this, bends down and places his lips on her forehead as a reward. It's not one she wanted, but the action is enough for her... at least for now.

However, the next few words are some figurative lightning strikes in the blue sky.

He looks at the sky wistfully.

"I have to go."

Silence ensues for a moment, before Mordred weakly buries her head into his stomach.

"How soon?"

Her voice is slightly strained, but with no traces of tears like a few weeks ago.

"Tonight."

"Can I ask why?"

He smiles at her again, this time with a patient, fatherly face.

"Rather than that, I have a task for you and Cecilia, just to keep you from getting bored," he says, a twinkle in his eyes. "How about it?"

She pouts, her fist scrunching his shirt.

"You're always treating me like a child...!"

"I'm not," he states. "It's important you do this, if you wanted to see your father."

At the mention of the current King, her back stiffens. However, she realizes asking anything more about the task will only dampen her mood, so she stays silent.

"The details are in Cecilia's hands, as I've given them to her."

Gently, he stands up, carrying her in a princess carry. Unfortunately, her feelings can't be as happy as she likes because of his sudden plan of departure.

"I... just have to put down a mad dog, that's all."

With those words, they leave the Lake to rest.

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **C**

 **Clarent: Hymn of the Dragons**

 **Rank: A++**

 **Type: Anti-Fortress, Anti-Army**

 **Range: 200**

 **Max. Targets: 1000**

An artificial Noble Phantasm, designed to be filled with a different history than the original template its based on. It's unique in its creation, the final version being an amalgamation of three powerful beings: a Hero Vessel, a Faerie Queen, and a Millennium Dragon. Bestowed to the knight Mordred, it can only be wielded by someone with thick dragon ancestry or connection. It provides a boost in physical parameters for the user as long as they possess sufficient quality of dragon blood. Its Prana consumption is inversely proportional to the aforementioned attribute.

It takes the form of a dazzling, sparkling silver sword with ornate crimson decorations. Red fairy letters mark the side of the blade near the guard, signifying this is not of mortal creation. Its quite a bit slimmer than its predecessor, almost to the same size as Excalibur or Arondight, but heavy beyond compare, requiring the use of Prana to move it efficiently. When activated by pouring a significant amount of Prana into it, vermillion markings begin to unravel from the decorations in a manner similar to a dragon's wings.

Swung at full force, the power is comparable to a volcanic eruption, causing great destruction to its surroundings. It originally has a 'Fire' attribute, but since Mordred is poor in Magecraft, she cannot use this power effectively. It has a strangely explosive Prana usage and storage, so delicate handling is required to wield its more esoteric powers. It grants the user an increase in defense against dragon-slaying weapons, though Anti-Dragon Noble Phantasms above rank B will still have a reduced effect.

Unlike Excalibur, which symbolizes the prayers of humans for 'glory', it contains instead the wishes of the dwellers from the Inside of the World, of 'balance' and 'peace'. Rather than aiming for the destruction of humanity to preserve the World, it strives for balance between the Outside and the Inside for continued survival of the system.

Compared to its original namesake, the former is something 'chosen because it suits her the most', while this weapon is 'forged to suit her perfectly', heightening the compatibility between the wielder and the weapon.


	10. Regretful Action

**Hey, guys! Sorry this one comes out a bit later than normal, because I've been busy during the holidays. Doing what, you say? Well... stuff that won't look good in a public forum, I tell you that.**

 **Now, since summer is here, let's discuss the main source of entertainment during this time: the Olympics.**

 **I'd like to use this opportunity to condemn those Russian officials who somehow or other got their athletes, who has been indicted with performance drug abuse, to battle in Rio. I think it's a pathetic attempt to cheat and curry favors with the higher ups, not to mention a cowardly deed in an international sporting exhibition. What a real sportsman/sportswoman will do is withdraw from that tournament, not doing these unsportsmanlike attitude. I'm sure 99% of you who will watch the Olympics is going to root for their defeat, and by 'you' I'm also including the Russian fans. I mean no offense to the quality of your athletes, because they're spectacularly good from the past up until this scandal, but I hope these cheaters get punished consequently.**

 **There's also many scandals popping up in many championships recently regarding drug abuse, most notably the UFC and the NBA. Now, I know this isn't a sports forum, but I'd still like to take this moment to discourage any of you from following in their footsteps. We, as a member of the world, have the responsibility to fight these crimes in any way we can, and if it means adding two paragraphs unrelated to HVS-01: RKR, then so be it.**

 **And with that, let's get on to the usual stuff.**

 **Disclaimer: You know the drill.**

* * *

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to calm myself.

It's a habit I formed after I mastered the use of my Pure Eyes. Resting my brain and physical eyes before their activation grants me more calculation space to process the incoming data, even if Alaya assured me it's not really necessary. However, this Placebo Effect is a necessity for a magus or Magic User, as we prefer to hypnotize ourselves to increase our techniques' efficacy.

I open my eyes, and the colors of the world changes.

I focus on any aberration in the flow of magic energy inside the humans mingling about. Perched on this high tower, after hypnotizing the guard for a nap, I can get a clear view of the entire town of Corbenic, the scene where everything goes wrong for Lancelot. According to the Akashic Records, he left from here after performing adultery with the local king's daughter back to Camelot for Guinevere's forgiveness. Her rejection of his apology caused him to go insane and wander the lands for many years before he's healed by the Holy Grail.

"So, Sir Lancelot went insane?" I ask the person behind me, only to confirm the facts.

A brown-haired lady answers my question.

"Yes," she nods. "Lady Elaine confides in me personally, claiming he went berserk after she reveals her pregnancy. Then, he jumped out of the window, as apparent from the broken glass and destroyed bushes, and left without a trace."

I sigh, turning back to face her.

"In any case, can you stop using that disguise in front of me? It's useless, you know?"

In front of my Pure Eyes, Dame Brusen looks like someone else... one i've met before, a much more powerful being.

She smiles, but doesn't take off her disguise of the flesh.

"Are you sure?" She asks arrogantly. "If I did so, won't everything around you be destroyed? Careful of your tone, Vessel."

"Not if I can eliminate you first, Lady Nimue."

To be fair, she's right. A being from the Inside as powerful of her will immediately terraform her surroundings according to her powers, recreating the landscape and killing everyone who can't control magic energy with magic energy overdose. It's exactly the same reason why I have my limiters, to limit the chaos we will cause if we brazenly walk about in our true forms.

However, in this form, and with Nimue encasing herself with a mortal body, I'm still confident I can seal her before she wreaks further havoc. Sadly, my hands are tied, since Nimue's existence is the counterbalance to Nyneve's strength.

It may seems odd to leave such an existence which loves 'chaos' so much alone, rather than fully destroying her to let her opposite which rules over 'order' take over, to ensure peace. But through my travels, I learned what truly creates peace was 'balance', which doesn't let either 'order' or 'chaos' to dominate. 'Chaos' can destroy the world if left unchecked, and 'order' will erase independence and promote slavery and restrictions if I let it roam free. Therefore, a delicate 'balance' must be preserved, and my main obstacle was to change destiny for the better without disrupting this 'balance'.

For the sake of this 'balance', I can't harm Nimue for any more than necessary.

Damn.

I narrow my eyes, trying to gauge her intentions while making a threatening face at the same time.

"You manipulated Fisher to let Lancelot save Elaine. Then, the scene will promote romantic feelings within her, right at the moment when you pushed her to embrace her feelings and seduce Lancelot. Finally, you drugged the both of them to achieve this end, where Elaine is miraculously pregnant after one intercourse and Lancelot's mental state becomes fragile to insanity."

I take a deep breath after my lengthy hypothesis, then say, "Am I wrong?"

"Fufufu, right on all accounts!" She happily exclaims while clapping. The act is so overstated I have to resist the urge to activate my Reality Marble right here and now to kill her, but I manages to calm myself down. There's nothing to gain for losing control right now.

"Where is he now?"

"Who knows?"

It's not a lie. She's the type to act first and think of the consequence later, although I have no doubt she can find out Lancelot's whereabouts this instant if she uses her power. Currently, she's limited by her disguise, so there's no way she can divine his location, even if the original Dame Brusen was also a talented magus before being taken over by this being.

Being too long in her presence will only increase my irritation, and as I can't do anything to her, I decide to leave.

"Ah, leaving already, Vessel SHIROU? Fufufu, I bid you good luck in your journeys," she chuckles, her tone very condescending.

I smile, although my face feels slightly stiff.

"How very kind of you, Lady Nimue. Sadly, I have no need for your blessings."

Without waiting for a retort, I jump off the tower to the direction where a conspicuously erratic magic energy flow goes.

I have data regarding Lancelot's magic energy signature, both when sane and insane. The sane part was collected when I was doing gathering information on all the Knights of the Round Table to correlate the data from Akasha and the real deal. The insane nature of his magic energy was witnessed when I reviewed the memory of a certain Holy Grail War, where only for a brief moment during heated combat, the black fog covering Berserker dissipated, allowing me to record his data into my brain.

Magic energy is produced by magic circuits, or in the case of the Pendragon lineage, magic cores, and the organ itself is tied directly to one's soul. It can only be accessed by Spiritual Surgery, and therefore someone's state of mind has tremendous influence on the state of one's soul. It's common to have someone's magic energy signature changes as he or she grows up and experiences many things, especially traumatic events.

Lancelot, being the most skilled knight in Altria's group, has a strangely small magic energy reserve, likely attributing to his abilities being blessings and gifts or some sort. He has less magical aptitude then, say, his future son, Galahad, about on par with Cecilia; that is, he has the talent of normal people regarding Magecraft. As he went insane, however, the normally weak trace became stronger and more erratic, thus more easily detectable to my Eyes.

My vision may be wide, but not all information coming from them will be processed. Like a regular human being, I take priority only for relevant, interesting, or eye-catching data to boost operating speed. I can take it all in, important or not, but doing so while moving is a dangerous and foolish exercise.

I run across the rooftops, careful not to break anything. The roof in these times, apart from rich mansions, are flimsily built, merely set as a shade from the elements rather than an important structural element. If I carelessly use my own version of Prana Burst, or even simple Reinforcement, I'll go straight through them and ruin my momentum. Not to mention the damage I have to repair later...

Ugh.

My skill in Alteration is comparatively worse than Reinforcement or Projection. Well, it still means I'm quite a lot better in using it than regular magi, and it serves me well in these kinds of situation. My Origin prevents me from Altering just about everything, but I manage to master Alteration to subtly change the laws of physics and chemistry, vital to my Reality Marble.

What I'm utilizing now is Altering the conservation of momentum.

As I arrive at an obstacle, my speed will inevitably be scrubbed due to friction and direction changes, in proportion to the energy I waste. To increase efficiency, I calculate how much momentum I have and how much I will lose, and upon contact, Alter that amount to be as small as possible, effectively rocketing me to another direction I aim at.

The basic thinking of this technique births one of the swordplay I taught Mordred. To be honest, I'm slightly jealous of her who can use this technique without resorting to Magecraft, merely through sheer innate talent and body control. She can even utilize Prana Burst as the initial released energy, giving her much better acceleration than mine.

She named it 'Ghost-Light Firefly', after I showed her how to do it. Fitting name, I suppose, especially at night, when the trail of magic energy used to change direction will draw beautiful multicolored lines on the dark sky, similar to the enchanting dance of fireflies.

What a grandiose name for a technique invented on a whim.

Over these few years, I tried to reduce the excess magic energy to an absolute minimum, eliminating any light show for someone unrelated to witness. Mordred can't do it still, though maybe it's because she didn't have decades to control her magic energy as precisely as mine. All the people I pass underneath me, just mingling in the streets of Corbenic, will be unable to see my silhouette after I reach this speed. Nimue can detect me, maybe, but her mortal eyes won't catch my seemingly random movements just by themselves.

As soon as I reach the town's outskirts, I shift up a gear and accelerate even faster.

I have to save Lancelot from his doom, no matter what.

* * *

The sound of horseshoes toppling over rough ground fills Cecilia's day, amidst the stops and the occasional village. The last few days have been uneventful, as the further they travel, lesser and lesser human settlements make themselves home, and both she and Mordred are having difficulties to secure supplies for their journey. Mordred's mood has worsened over the journey as well, with the diminishing amount of meals they have every day.

However, one thing she can't put her finger on about her master is how calm she is about everything else. If it was her, being left behind by your loved ones so soon after they met was, at the very least, very disconcerting. In all honesty, she expects her master to break down again, mentally, because of Mordred's fickle temperament. Even she herself misses the presence of her Grandmaster, if only as a person she could really relate to.

Yet, none of the above happened.

A few more hours on horseback beckon, and still no attempt on conversation from both of them. It's not an uncomfortable silence, since they've been together for long enough words aren't really necessary to convey their thoughts, both on and off the battlefield. Subtle gestures clue in on the direction they feel the best choice, and in these wild lands far east, it's very important to have absolute trust in one's travel companion, lest they meet their ends in the wrong end of a Saxon's sword.

Soon, sunlight reduces its presence, and they make a rudimentary camp by the side of the road. The location is a bit conspicuous, but with the risk of being discovered and attacked by hostile forces, there exist the possibility of meeting new allies and comrades as well. Fortunately, the last few times didn't cause any trouble for them, so they get into their routine and set up for the night.

As they drink the soup made from prepackaged stock given by Shirou, Mordred stares at her student, before speaking, "Okay... just say it."

"Huh?" Confused, Cecilia tilts her head to one side.

Mordred smiles. "You've been making that curious face for a while now, from the start of our journey, even. So, what is it? You want to ask me something, right?"

Fidgeting under the scrutinizing gaze, Cecilia blushes. Her master can be childish and rough sometimes, but still very sharp and perceptive for the important matters. It's her fault for underestimating Mordred's capability, and she pays for it by coming clean with her previous thoughts.

"Um... aren't you sad, Master? With Grandmaster leaving, I mean."

She breathes in relief as Mordred simply shakes her head without getting upset by the question.

"Why should I?"

"Ah, er... because many of my female friends tend to be depressed, or something, when a man they fancy left... So, I thought... Ugh, no, don't mind me, Master. It's been rude of me." She bows her head in apology.

Mordred chuckles, and put her bowl to one side.

"Don't compare my love with something petty like that!" She laughs in good nature, before saying, "Cecilia, let me teach you something. True love doesn't waver or hurt, no matter the circumstances or distance."

She looks to the sky, as if trying to divine Shirou's location from the stars.

"I love him, and I trust him in return. Just a few months, or years even, of separation won't dampen either of our feelings. That's what it means to love someone, much like how I care about you, or you towards me, okay?"

Cecilia is awed by the sincerity in her master's voice.

"You... really love Grandmaster, don't you?"

"Umu!"

Cecilia places a hand under her chin, staring at the fire.

"What's it like, Master? How can you love someone so selflessly?"

Mordred grins, asking, "You're really curious, huh? Did Shirou tell you our history?"

She nods wordlessly.

Mordred exhales a breath into the cold night air, calming her excitement before she recounts her emotions in the past.

"He... was my savior, you know?"

She starts with a calm tone.

"If you don't know already, I'm a homunculus, not a normal human."

She takes a look at Cecilia, but there's no surprise evident on her student's face. Good, she can skip the lengthy explanation, since Shirou most likely have explained it to her. In that regard, how much did he talk about? Should she double-check with Cecilia?

Ah, no matter.

"Back then... when I first gained consciousness, it wasn't the moment Shirou woke me up. In the glass vat, I could already think and sense the stuff going around me. Of course, I couldn't form complex thoughts initially, but the basic stuff was there.

"I didn't know good or evil, merely floated there, absorbing the information my mother poured into me and adapting to the physical changes she did to my body. I didn't even feel a thing when she died, just... I was empty, a simple shell for anything to be poured into."

She smiles absentmindedly, in reminiscence of the early memories.

"In that aspect, perhaps my feelings of affection to him at the start was a little biased. He cared for me, catered to my needs, and made me happy... I was in cloud nine in those years. I loved him, as a parent and a father, also as a woman to a man, however immature that feeling was.

"And then, as I grew older, I got more and more curious about my origins, so I asked him for the truth. To be honest, the me back then was really childish... hehehe..." She chuckles, though a slight bitterness can be heard from her voice. "I got angry, and fought needlessly with him. I left with pain in my heart...

"It hurt, thinking all I've been all this time was merely someone else's design. Both my mother and Shirou has shaped me, forged me, and manipulated me to fulfill their dreams... Or at least, that's what I thought at the time. Thank goodness I was wrong!"

A sour laugh escapes from her lips, but Cecilia doesn't dare interrupt her master.

"It's ironic how my feelings for him blossomed and matured only during my travels, away from him... Before I met you, I visited many places, trying to gain further insight to my past. Every where I went, only cold gazes receives me, because I was only a disposable homunculus to them.

"The only person who ever saw me in any worth or value was Shirou.

"I learned how he thought, I practiced how he acted... because I have realized what I aspire for, even if the concrete image didn't form until recently. I saw the people suffer under injustice, or when sacrifices were made under the guise of just wars. I felt what he must've felt... a mix of admiration and disgust to the way our King ruled the land.

"And yet, because of my immaturity, your village ended up a victim..." Mordred turns to look at her student, bowing her head. "For what it's worth, even if you scold me for doing this again and again, I'm sorry."

Cecilia smiles, not able to bring herself to chide Mordred.

"It's alright, Master. I'm sure the men have already forgiven you, so it's not fair for me to blame you right now."

Mordred returns the smile.

"With all these experience, every hardship and painful memories, only made me realize how foolish I was to throw away everything due to anger. My love for him grew and grew, because he's the person who embodies my ideal, perhaps... the first who regard me as who I am, who'll never toss me to the side, even if I'm just a tool in the end."

She holds a palm to Cecilia's rebuke at the self-deprecation.

"No, no, don't make that kind of face," she scolds Cecilia. "No matter how you look at it, both of us are just a small part in his plans, simple pawns in a board game against an unknown force. And yet, isn't our goal the same? Maybe I inherited it from him, and it's not even my own dream, but it's still a beautiful dream nonetheless."

She stands up, collecting the bowls to wash them.

"Which is why I'll continue to chase after it..."

Mordred flashes her a teasing smile, her hands hovering over her navel just above her womb, patting it.

"Besides, he did give me a 'parting present', right?"

Laughing at Cecilia's blushing face, she walks away while carrying the dishes.

Cecilia can only stare at her master's back, digesting her words.

Indeed, the goal of peace is admirable. But, like what her master experienced, Cecilia feels insulted and slighted at the comparison of herself and a pawn. Her pride as a swordswoman bangs against her consciousness, which begs her to calm down and see the bigger picture. If she does so, then everything's fine and dandy, but she just can't accept it so easily like her master.

Perhaps Mordred has been blinded by her devotion to Shirou. It's an emotion not unfamiliar to her, as she feels the same towards her master... an inclination to do and give everything to someone who changed her life. However, it's not as if Cecilia herself has no affection for her grandmaster at all.

Shirou, in the brief moments when they were together, has always been polite and respectful towards her, even if she's his student and younger than him. His mannerisms also weren't arrogant or self-centered, and his cooking skills were great. All in all, he did what almost all males or people with his ability would never do in their lifetime: serve others, even if they're lower than him. His honesty was painful, but also one of his good points, never letting off a feeling he's faking his kindness and generosity.

Come to think of it, being used by him as a pawn didn't sound so bad after all...

And yet, she can't help but think...

' _Peace... is it truly worth the pain, Master?'_

With that thought, she goes out to help Mordred with the cleaning.

* * *

After a few days of reconnaissance, I sigh.

This is what happens when I'm late.

A few miles from me, roughly in a straight line from my line of sight, Lancelot du Lac is wasting around in a local tavern.

Because of Nimue's influence, his magic energy track became confusing and blurry, although I assumed it was because I fell into her mental trap. She excels in such tricks, and for the slightest moment I let my guard down, she managed to plant a small suggestion inside my head. It's subtle, as more complicated ones would only be automatically dispelled, but it worked very well, delaying me for 2 days.

Precisely just enough time for me to lose Lancelot's trail, so I have to do it all over again.

Also, because of that, one of the Knights of the Round Table managed to get a head start on me, already moving close to pinpointing Lancelot's location. It's this tight time schedule which made me hesitate to initiate contact with the now-insane man. I don't have a major issue with meeting any members of Altria's court, it's just... the time isn't right for me to reveal myself. A brief encounter with Gawain back then was unavoidable, though it's my mistake as well, being overcame with emotions regarding Mordred's whereabouts.

I planned to meet Lancelot in the wilderness, then find a way to snap him back to sanity. It would involve an intense fight, for sure, but that's precisely the reason why I tried to intercept his route so quickly. The aftermath of the battle would be remote and hard to track, easy to conceal and clean up. Now, inside a settlement, it's extremely difficult to avoid collateral damage to the buildings and the people, much less to hide my activities.

I spent my day resting, simply watching for any sudden movements from Lancelot, just to keep track of his whereabouts. It's simple through the combination of my Strucutral Analysis, Reinforcement, and Pure Eyes, and I don't even have to physically aim in his direction to spy on him. I can afford to camp on the other side of the hill, as the small town is located near a series of undulations and compressions, and watch the efforts of Bedivere coming in fast.

The effeminate knight rides hard from the south entrance along with his aides and retainers. They've taken off their armors before coming in, of course, since it'd do no one good to attract too much attention. However, there's still numerous glances thrown their way due to their speed, which barely slows down even after passing the gates. Some of the guards look alarmed, but a plate tossed to the hands of one of them clears them of all suspicion, allowing them to enter unhindered.

At the center of the city, where merchants gather, they finally stop and tie their girdles to a designated spot. Fast and smooth, all the members quickly blend into the crowd, leaving the curious people confused about their presence. They spread throughout the city, asking for information. I can't hear this far away, but I'm confident in my lip-reading, so I know roughly what they're saying.

They work efficiently, working their way from the perimeter to the center. With this method, they find Lancelot within a couple of hours. They decide not to immediately storm the place and drag him out, though, so it'll be an interesting showdown.

If Bedivere can return Lancelot to his knightly ways without me interfering, then that's fantastic news.

Let's see...

* * *

' _What a disgrace...'_

Bedivere looks in disgust at the hunched back of a man, clearly drunk on one of the tables. Bottles of cheap alcohol lays scattered across the table and around the floor. There's clearly some previous conflict, as several pieces of wood from a few of the tables are piled up in the corner, and no one dares to sit next to this drunkard.

He feels anger welling up in his chest as he makes his way towards the prone Lancelot.

' _When I heard him deserting, I had expected a fight... against a rebel army, or a tribe of barbarians. This... what a shitty excuse of a man! You dare betray your country, only to end up as a waste like this?!'_

Among them, Lancelot has always been the example to strive for. Skillful, eloquent, polite, charming, and kind, he's the role model for the younger knights and squires in the castle. The moment Lancelot's desertion was revealed to the Knights was like a stab through the heart to Bedivere, who always believed the best in him. He doesn't know why the Knight of the Lake turns traitor, but he doesn't care.

He'll drag him back in a body bag if he has to.

Roughly, he grasps Lancelot's collar and throws him to the ground.

Instantly, the people in the taverns start to scramble for safety, all of them running outdoor, including the manager and a few others. All of them has seen what the drunken man can do, and no one has any interest to get in the way, if the newcomer decides to make a ruckus.

"Stand up," Bedivere spats out.

Between the messy bangs, a pair of black eyes shines with anger.

* * *

I facepalm.

"Oh, dear..."

It's fortunate the people in the tavern decided to get out, because the encounter has gotten very messy as I predicted. From the data I glimpsed in the Akashic Records, Bedivere has an upstanding and strict personality, a stickler for the rules and chivalry. By default, he's quite similar to Lancelot, and as a result, there's no way he can accept how Lancelot behaves right now enough to have a civilized conversation.

And, as if on cue, a part of the wall of the tavern explodes, scattering wood splinters everywhere.

True to his rank, Bedivere elegantly lands on the ground after being thrown clear through the windows, his sword already unsheathed.

Ah, must I do _all_ the work around here?

This is exactly the problem which causes the Kingdom to be destroyed. Instead of negotiating every issues and employing diplomacy to achieve mutual benefit, every single one of them prefers to use force to subdue the opponent. It's this conflict which blooms into larger conflict, until there's nothing left to fight for or fight about. Sadly, history is marred with these battles all too often.

That's what I want to rectify.

Gently, I build up my magic energy, ready to spring to action in any moment.

The distance is 4 miles, well within my bow's range. If I Trace an arrow, emphasizing an extreme low-drag setup, the attack will arrive so fast they won't even feel or hear it coming, passing the sound barrier with ease. This distance is also ideal for defense, since the thick vegetation and large distance will render any chasing pack useless, especially Bedivere and Lancelot who specializes in cavalry and infantry skills.

I've confirmed there's no magi in Bedivere's party or inside the town, so I should be fine. Still, there's no harm in being cautious against scrying techniques, so I draw a six-rune combination to set up an anti-detection barrier. A Reinforced arrow won't break its concealment, though more powerful Mystic Codes will render it meaningless.

Hopefully, my intervention won't be necessary, but those two hotheaded knights will make it difficult.

Lancelot jumps out after Bedivere, two short wooden poles in each of his hands, likely taken from an unfortunate chair or table. Unlike the King or Mordred, most of the Knights of the Round Table can barely utilize their magic energy, so Lancelot is at a disadvantage against Bedivere's enchanted sword.

A quick Trace on the sword reveals its history. A simple, but excellently crafted steel longsword, it's enchanted by Merlin as a part of a mass-produced Mystic Code project. It's not as powerful as Bedivere's favored sword, but as a replacement on sudden notice, it's more than adequate. Sifting Mana from the surroundings, it's pretty much self-sustaining, though a small trickle of Od is still required to activate its boost. With it, Bedivere will have his fatigue reduced and his mental abilities boosted.

Quite an upgrade, but it's barely enough to contend against Lancelot's otherworldly skills.

Faster than Bedivere's men can react, he launches a fierce assault on the armed knight.

The short wooden sticks offer plenty of agility, so Lancelot, even when drunk, makes the most of it. A quick step in just before Bedivere can set his stance put Lancelot inside his range, followed by a lightning-fast stab to the throat. A twitch in his other arm tells me he plans to follow it up after any parry or block with a slash towards the midsection, which with his strength should be enough to crack Bedivere's ribs.

Bedivere isn't a Knight of the Round Table for nothing, though.

Even when his stance is compromised, he keeps calm and dodges the thrust with minimal movements to the side by twisting his body. He moves to the outside of Lancelot's outstretched arm to avoid the follow-up slash, then uses his sideways momentum to attack Lancelot's thigh. The human thigh contains a major artery, and a deep cut there can cut off one of the strongest muscle in the human body along with massive blood lost.

With insane flexibility, Lancelot lightly jumps and counters the slash with a side kick to Bedivere's side with the targeted leg, making the effeminate knight miss. It connects straight on, but Bedivere menages to loosen his muscles and jump backwards, dulling the impact. Regardless of the result, Lancelot continues his assault madly, seemingly trying his best to cave in his fellow knight's face in.

A downwards slash is parried easily with the steel sword, but before it can break Lancelot's balance, he changes his grip mid-air to a backhanded stab to the abdomen, in conjunction with a strike to the collarbone. A crack signifies the second strike finds its mark, but Bedivere has manipulated the hilt of his sword to block the stab.

He jumps back to create some distance, a wince visible on his face from the cracked collarbone. Lancelot switches his other grip also to a backhand one, launching himself with surprising speed to a low stance.

Furiously, like a whirlwind, he sends a multitude of slashes towards Bedivere's ankle, thigh, knee, groin, and stomach, keeping a low position to make it awkward for Bedivere to counter from above. The Head of Imperial Guards hurriedly backsteps, his sword flashing downwards around his center line to avoid being incapacitated around his legs.

Both of them know if Bedivere decides to counter towards Lancelot's exposed back, an upwards thrust will come faster than anything he can try and pierce his throat in return, so the exchange continues for some time. However, slowly, Bedivere becomes more and more cornered with every exchange, his higher stance naturally unsuited to the condition.

Like a snake, Lancelot's legs shoot out, trapping one of Bedivere's leg in a scissor hold and toppling him to the ground.

He launches upwards, keen on getting on top of his stunned former friend.

"Right... that's enough."

My patience has its limits, after all.

"Trace, on."


	11. Blind Musings

**Well, hello again everyone! Thanks for your continued support and likes/favorites/follows/reviews!**

 **Continuing on from the last AN, what an Olympic event we have. Legends, heartbreak, tears, controversies, it had everything for us to gobble up in the social media. To be honest, my country didn't have a full TV license from the IOC, so I couldn't watch it as freely as I used to, but well, times move on. I hope you enjoy this story even more than the Olympics!**

 **Once again, I have read some of your reviews claiming confusion for the storyline. About this, I have to apologize for not being able to cater to your demands straight away, because I based it on actual Arthurian popular legends. I implore all of you to read it up, at least to gain some insight into the timeline, but of course most of that will be interposed with OCs and rules from the Nasuverse. The story will unfold eventually, but now isn't the right time or momentum to do so. To put it simply, read and follow me until the end!**

 **Now, read, review, and follow!**

* * *

[Ah, you arrived safely, Galehaut. Peace to you.]

"Ha... do not belittle me with that tone, Nimue. I am more than capable of protecting myself."

In a separate space from the World, two beings are peacefully conversing. At least, that's what it appears on the surface.

Judging from the stature, one of them is a man. Covered in a long shroud, it does little to cover his tall and lanky frame. A hood masks his face with shadows, though his opponent knows exactly how he looks like, so it's a futile exercise. It's of most use outside, in the normal world with normal people, so they won't faint from looking at the horrifying predator who've slaughtered hundreds in just a few short years.

A 'demon' in a false sense, Galehaut glides forward towards Nimue.

As humanity grows, so does its culture and expectations. They requires a higher being to worship, a commander to follow, and a set of rules to obey. With the 'order', as always, then comes the 'chaos' necessary to balance it. Unconsciously, humanity yearns for this 'chaos', just to have something to fight against, to produce a pleasing emotion when they repel it.

From the wishes of humans for an antagonist in their lives, the 'imaginary demon' is born.

Similar to Conceptual Weapons and higher beings birthed from the prayers of humans for 'protection', 'glory', 'love', and so on, so does an imaginary demon fulfills the human minds' wish for something to take away their pain and suffering. A symbol, in a sense, to construct a solid expression in which they can struggle and triumph against.

According to that process, Galehaut is born as a 'villain' against Arthur Pendragon.

How does one can easily become a hero? It's a question many have asked and desired to know the answer, yet the method is all very simple: be famous for doing a good deed against evil.

As a young ruler, Altria needs a boost in popularity with the masses. She's already famous for the young man able to pull out and wield the Sword in the Stone, but her fame is limited to those in attendance, namely, the knights and mercenaries who bother to attend. She requires something to propel her name across the lands, preferably a large-scale event in which she can cast herself as a force of good.

Having accumulated wealth and competent companions, all she needs is an opponent.

However, Galehaut's birth is in no way connected to Altria's rise in strength.

The people of Britain has a dream, buried deep inside their hearts, unable to get out during the tough times of chaos. A dream of peaceful times... A dream of glory... A dream for a champion to fight for them, prophesied by a legend spread by Merlin. A legend of Britain's Once and Future King, who'll lead them out of the dark times to an everlasting utopia on earth.

It's this ardent prayer which indirectly shapes Galehaut, born as a talented man who rose as a warlord commanding the entire northern part of the island. Powerful and cunning, he swiftly gathered loyal followers and wealth, giving himself an incredible advantage over Altria's young reign. By all accounts, the difference in their military strength was so vast it should've been a walkover for Galehaut.

Inevitably, as in any stories with a happy ending, he was destined to lose. However, it wasn't due to some outside interference from a powerful third part or bad luck. The problem was much more fundamental, coming from within Galehaut himself.

Inherently, imaginary demons are beings susceptible to human wishes. They receive the pain and suffering from humans, and in exchange, lends them otherworldly powers. The demons have a naturally affable and noble personalities, holding the concept of 'equivalent exchange' very highly. It's this character flaw which was the downfall of Galehaut.

Mesmerized by Altria's and the Knights' skills and leadership, he opted to peacefully surrender to her, merging his considerable influence to her meager one. There was some outrage, of course, but he used his demonic abilities to quiet the unrest and seamlessly integrate his forces with the King's.

It was that moment when he struck a great friendship with the shining talent Lancelot.

[Fufufu, that boy is running around well...] Nimue chuckles darkly. Noticing Galehaut's glare, she smiles, [Don't be such a spoilsport, Galehaut! Is it not you who wished for him to achieve greater things? Rejoice!]

"Greater things, yes, but not this... this _madness_! What have you done?!"

He spats the sentence with fury, but he makes no hostile movements with his body. There exists an insurmountable gap between their powers, and Nimue has authority similar, if not more, than the Phantasmal Beasts as one part of the Queen of Faeries. Challenging her is foolhardy, but he decides to tread the waters with words for the sake of his good friend.

[Well...] Nimue playfully replies, her tone clearly unfocused and full of jokes. [You wished for him to 'move ahead in life', if I recall correctly? Now, he has every opportunity to be king! He has the ability, the soldiers I prepared in Corbenic, so isn't my actions soooooo kind? Fufufu, you may express your gratitude later, Galehaut.]

Seductively, her tendrils sways about due to habit. Her mocking tone simply stokes the flames of anger inside him, but he forces himself to calm down.

"Tch... don't count on that," he roughly replies.

[How crude...] Nimue places a palm on her cheek, creating an expression of fake pain. [In any case, are your forces ready? The timetable is moving forward quite rapidly now, much more than I predicted, since that homunculus has begun to move as well.]

He groans.

"Yeah, they're prepared. But this is the first time I heard of this... homunculus, you say? Will it be a problem?"

She smiles.

[Hmm... please refer the homunculus as a 'she', since it's a female model, or someone will be angry at me... Ah! In any case, even if your forces are defeated, I still have you, right? I'm sure a single person won't be a problem to you, no?]

Tired of this fake banter, he turns around and starts his preparation to leave without replying to the teasing tone. However, right before he departs, he cranes his neck slightly to look at her, steel in his voice.

"They will all die. I give you my word."

With that, he disappears.

[Fufufu... I'm sure you will, foolish demon...]

The space is filled with mocking laughter, one a human may make when he or she sees a pig struggling on its way to the slaughterhouse.

* * *

Altria calmly scans the documents placed on her table, with only the ticking of Merlin-made clock accompanies her. She had to order him to shut off the annoying alarm which blares every single hour, a feature likely implemented on purpose to annoy her, but as a table decoration, it's a beautiful, intricate piece, and useful as well. Sound of papers shuffling then resounds in the quiet study, giving a metronomic feel to the place.

Her instincts immediately reacts to a shift in the air, where Merlin appears all of a sudden.

His expression is grim, and his usually-concealed eyes now shine bright violet. Her body involuntarily tenses to the incoming important news. Lately, Merlin has toned down his teasing and pranks, much to the relief of the occupants of the castle, but it's only due to the increasingly chaotic condition of her Kingdom. It's nothing major, but the small incidents still wears her down in their resolution.

On the plus side, at least the maids will no longer get suddenly pregnant, or the squire boys finding themselves waking up with a pair of female breasts.

She extends her palm, granting him permission to report.

"My barrier array detected a cluster of movements just southeast of the island, along with some preparations up north. They triggered at almost the same time, so perfectly in harmony in each other... No way it's just a coincidence."

She closes her eyes to think momentarily.

"North... the Celts? Why now? There is no resistance when we built the walls and the villages there. Some of our people have even mingled with them... The Saxons I understand, but how did they come into contact without our knowledge?"

She keeps pondering ideas after ideas in a small voice, with Merlin patiently waiting for her to finish. Clearly, he has already formed a conclusion, but he decides against serving everything in a silver platter to his young charge. It's a good learning experience, even now, a few years into her reign.

After a few minutes, a glint of realization comes into her eyes.

"Is it... the 'unknown factor' you mentioned a few times in our meetings? So the two forces has an intermediary, in a sense. Have you come to the same conclusion?"

He nods happily.

"Spot on, Altria. However, I bring further updates regarding that party... perhaps one you may get angry at."

The last phrase alarms her. For a long time now, she has suppressed her emotions in order to be as impartial as possible, to give birth to a system of justice to govern the people. It works, and her Kingdom flourishes better than ever. There's been a few rumors going on recently about how people are dissatisfied with her iron rule, but with the lack of evidence, she can't act on that information. Eventually, the action becomes a habit, so for Merlin to claim the news will cause her to break her composure is a thrill.

"Go on," she says cautiously.

He inhales a deep breath, creating a sense of drama he so loves.

"First off, that... entity, let's call it that, yes. The _entity_ may be responsible for Lancelot's recent actions."

Instantly, her chair's arm is pulverized by her grip.

Merlin snaps his head nearer towards her, his eyes shining bright violet and staring into her own. Immediately, her grip loosens, and she exhales a big gulp of air.

She wearily speaks, "Thank you for that, Merlin. I needed it."

"Always, Altria."

Settling into a chair, he asks, "Can I continue?"

"Please do."

"I've investigated Corbenic, and the case doesn't look good or clear enough for me to point my finger at a culprit. Fisher and his daughter had to have a part to play, but I'm still not sure whether they're involved directly or indirectly. One of the prime suspects I have, though, is Fisher's court magus, Dame Brusen."

He puts his hand into one of his pockets, then throws a fistful of powder into the air between their faces. The powder glitters under the candle lights, spreading into a thin screen which flickers into life. On it, a neat arrangement of pictures and written paragraphs are shown, like a floating piece of report on parchment.

The picture shows a relatively beautiful but otherwise unremarkable woman with brown hair and eyes. Brusen's data is shown alongside the picture neatly, greatly enhancing reading comfort. Compared to parchment, this viewing Magecraft is far easier to work with... if only everyone else can use it. A few of Merlin's apprentices may be able to do it, but all of them are spread throughout the Kingdom doing various tasks and researches.

He expands the screen before continuing.

"Her movements these past years have been strange, almost... almost as if her life can be separated into two chapters: the one before and the one after five years ago. I talked with her families and colleagues, and yet none of them can point out any difference in her behavior. Yet, the her before five years ago made hundreds of political moves to secure her position now, and right before she receive the position of official court magi, she threw it all away to be the Princess's chambermaid and assistant.

"Of course, with her predecessor passing away two years later, you can argue she's just positioning herself to usurp the position or outright take it by assassinating the previous court magus. However, she never officially took the position, only serving Fisher in an unofficial capacity... a consultant, if you will. It made no different regarding her relationship with him, but her political power is now far weaker than what could have been.

"This switch in ambition happened so fast and so drastically it couldn't be a natural progression of the human mind. I looked further, yet I couldn't find any more leads on her. But there's been an interesting development regarding Fisher and Elaine's personality and history, and some digging unearthed a problem they never reported to us."

Altria narrows her eyes. "I assume Fisher knows full well the penalties regarding neglect of duty, no? He is not a brash and stupid ruler, so why...?"

"That's my point," he insists. "Everything they did were so inconsistent with what was reported by their acquaintances, I suspected the one we call 'entity' previously was pulling some strings behind our backs. The thing he didn't report was the matter of his daughter being cursed by Morgan, supposedly, when she was undercover as Brusen's predecessor..."

"'Supposedly'?" Altria asks, raising one eyebrow.

"Again, another inconsistency." Merlin swipes his hand in the air, changing the information displayed on the screen. "You know Morgan as well as I do, my King, and do you think she's someone who'll peacefully sit back after cursing someone to spent eternity inside a bath of boiling water, and did so in the open? It doesn't make sense, given she never liked to be in the spotlight. How could Fisher conclude it's Morgan's doing, if she even did it in the first place?"

Altria closes her eyes in deep thought.

"An impersonator, then? Is it the same one who's pulling Brusen's strings?"

"Perhaps, but I'm not too sure. I have a hypothesis, but it still needs more evidence from my students. I should be able to compile a comprehensive conclusion in time for the next meeting."

She chuckles. "It seems we are meeting more and more often these days."

"It's a chaotic time, after all," Merlin smiles weakly, a rare show of gentleness from him. "We need constant communication the most in these times."

She leans back, tension leaving her shoulders.

"Well, we have to make a move, sooner or later. I have stationed Lamorak and Tristan to the east in the first place... so can you back up Kay to the north?"

"That's spreading it too thin, don't you think?"

"We need some more time, at least to formulate a clear spearhead against that third party."

He hums in approval. "Casting a net?"

She nods. "I am not mobilizing all the Knights for a simple reason, after all."

"What worries me most is their personalities," he sighs. "Let's hope they don't trip each other up and punch a hole in the defense line."

Reluctantly, she agrees. Creating an elite group solely based on talent is bound to create friction between the members. Each of them are skilled, far better than anyone else in the Kingdom or the Roman Empire, and they all have their own pride regarding their strength. Pride is a necessary item to have inside their minds, for only their pride will keep them going and fighting against the odds, achieving miraculous feats of arms. As such, she doesn't ban them from disagreeing with each other, but she has to play headmaster, in a sense, to keep them in line with the Kingdom's direction for the future.

"Speaking of which, what of your disciples? You haven't informed me of their precise deployment."

He lifts both his palms up in resignation. "No, no, it'd be better if their locations are unknown to anyone... and even I don't know their _precise_ locations, only their tasks, so I can somewhat divine what they're doing. Most of them are shadowing the Knights, operating within a few miles from each other, and a few are working on this case we're worried about."

"I see," Altria says reluctantly. "You seem to trust them very much."

Her tone is somewhat suspicious, in a good sense. As a king, she has to know every single thing happening inside the Kingdom, and having tens of magi moving about without anyone's knowledge, even if they're chasing after the same goal, doesn't rest well with her. She already has bad experiences with a magus's sense of logic and desires, and those rarely go hand-in-hand with the general masses' well-being and prosperity.

"They're my cute students, after all."

She narrows her eyes, but Merlin doesn't yield. Accepting she won't get anything more from him, she changes the topic to something lighter.

"What about Vivian? You always talk about her."

At the mention of that name, Merlin shifts uncomfortably. Vivian is talented, perhaps the most out of his students, and the unofficial heir to him. Altria isn't sure if he'll eventually pass on his Crest to her, but with each passing day, the notion seems more and more likely. The girl is polite and reserved, but the King hasn't conversed with her enough to know her better. As always, she keeps everyone at arms' length, so a mere disciple won't be able to meet with her often in the first place.

Taken in from Vivian's father, the king of Northumberland, she's a skilled huntress and magus, combining her both her crafts into a devastating combination. Altria prefers to use her, through Merlin as a stealth vanguard to lead an attack to her enemies' backs. Her record is impeccable, and Altria has a hunch Merlin favors her not only as a student, but also as a woman.

Such relationship is viewed as a tabboo in this era, almost to the point of comparing it to a parent-child incestuous relationship. Understandably, under the King's intense gaze, Merlin's body language becomes nervous. He knows Altria won't judge him like others do, but she does have her own set of morals, and even if she knows his desires regarding Vivian, it's still not a good idea to openly admit his feelings.

Or... It's more like Altria knows this court magus of hers often thinks with his lower member only in regards of the opposite sex. There's been many cases when she has to settle the issues with the female's family quietly to avoid a ruckus with Merlin. He's competent, make no mistake, but once in a while she feels like castrating him with Avalon's blunt part, just to make it the most painful experience for him.

Awkwardly, he says, "Well... she's following Lancelot's trail."

Her eyes widen in surprise.

"Ah... then, I think we can leave it to her."

"Yes."

Rising from his seat, he turns around.

"Then, I'll take my leave, Your Majesty."

"You are dismissed."

* * *

"This is the end. Surrender."

Such a cold voice is stating the obvious to me.

One shot...

Just one shot I made to avoid Bedivere getting pummeled to death, piercing straight through Lancelot's arm by surpassing the sound barrier. From this far out, my presence won't be detected by either of them, since the attack was completely soundless and without killing intent. With this, Lancelot would get distracted and allow Bedivere to even the odds.

Or, at least, that's the plan.

My Pure Eyes and Reinforcement are brilliant trackers of things, but I have to admit, against this kind of Magecraft, I'm still lacking defense in this area.

Using a spatial-transference Magecraft, these people managed to teleport themselves around me, surrounding me with hostile intentions.

The person talking earlier is a woman, judging from her voice. The group contains 5 people including the woman, all dressed in uniform clothes, a thick veil over their faces, and wide-brimmed hats. This way, any enemy they encounter will have trouble differentiating them, preventing memorization of their patterns and habits.

Rather, their spell-detection range is very impressive. I can't detect anything from ten miles out, so their range must be much further than that. Granted, from that distance, even I'm not that accurate, so my effective range is about... half that, I guess? But not receiving any kind of reaction at all is embarrassing, especially since I take pride in my eyesight and nose.

Too bad their disguise means nothing in front of this very Eyes.

The woman... Vivian, is it? I distinctly remember her face from reading Merlin's records, and his number one student being here doesn't bode well for my stealth. The other four aren't chumps either; the three male and one female each possessing considerable strength, judging from the quality of their Prana. Vivian has the biggest and the densest, colored violet in my Eyes and smelled distinctly of lavenders, a trait I attribute to her teacher's moniker of 'Magus of Flowers'.

In any sense, there's no way I'll obediently follow her orders, right?

Her mouth moves in a very slow motion, a result from me accelerating my thoughts to a near-critical rate. A useful technique to use under duress; it's a replication of those alchemists from Atlas with their Memory Partition along with Thought Acceleration. How should I handle this situation? For sure, escape is my biggest priority, but an escape is only useful if the enemy gains virtually no information from myself. An escape orchestrated against five highly-trained magi will inevitably reveal some of my techniques, so that option is already flawed in the first place.

And then... how lethal should I be? Killing them all is the best option if I want to conceal my cards... No, no. My own heart will never accept such acts, and surrendering just as she said will be preferable than taking the life from innocents...

Oh, right... they're _magi_ , for crying out loud! No way they're innocent...

No, no, killing is bad. Bad. No killing.

Then, how about negotiating? I now know more about them than they do about me, after a few moments longer to fully Trace their equipment's history, so I roughly know how to play my words just right. Magi favors the concept of 'equivalent exchange', so if I can subtly lead them to a barter system which is beneficial to me, all will be good.

Knocking them out non-lethally is also an option. It'd be difficult to manipulate their memories, and I'm sure Merlin would be able to reverse whatever I did to them, since my talents in that particular area is horrid. Leaving without doing so will bring me back to the first problem, no different than escaping without engaging them.

Well, let's start with a smile, shall we? A good impression is vital after all... Or rather, it depends on the person, isn't it? Some of the other Vessels can't smile at all, so when they do, humans usually run away frightened or think they're having a constipation.

Ah, let's hope my smile isn't that bad. Mordred likes it, so it should be fine.

I smile.

"I'm afraid I can't comply, miss. Perhaps we can resolve this with a mere warning?"

One of the male magus snickers. His name is... McGregor, is it? Middle age, specializes in alchemical metallurgy. He's quite experienced, but his specialty is a bad match against me, so he shouldn't pose much of a threat.

He says arrogantly, "There's your warning already. Now, stand still and-"

"Ah, I don't mean your earlier command," I cut his speech abruptly. "I mean... _my_ warning to _you_."

Vivian waves her arm, stopping her comrades from immediately attacking. Really, these magi are very easy to rile up, their stupid pride always taking center stage rather than the bigger picture. They're fortunate to have such a sensible leader among them, although her tense body language serves also as a warning to me.

Through the shadow casted by her hat, her brilliant red eyes stares straight to my face, judging every single muscle movement to discern my intentions. She closes them immediately afterwards, either satisfied with her find or finding nothing. In any case, it's not going to be pretty.

Her stern voice rings, "I think an introduction is in order, no? State your name, archer."

Again, a command, not a request. I wonder how on earth Merlin ever developed romantic feelings for this domineering woman, or is he one of those with strange proclivities? I myself prefer more polite females, although what matters is her inner personality, not the projected persona.

"I'm afraid I can't say... yet. My situation isn't that simple, you see."

"Well, it better gets very simple incredibly soon."

"I will speak only in front of the King, and only when the moment is right."

"And who will decide the 'right time'?" This time, a female voice speaks, much younger than Vivian, even if their figures are similar.

Ah, no... I was wrong in my earlier assessment. Surrounding me aren't five magi... but four magi and a _Phantasmal Species_.

This girl is called... er, Filvis. Her records are a little harder to pull quickly, since her elven blood has more 'weight' than normal humans. Thankfully, she's just a half-blood, so her strength is limited. If I have to fight against a full-blood elf, things can get ugly if I hold back to avoid major injuries. That said, her strength is comparable to Vivian in her young age, so her potential is enormous.

Her lack of experience shows, however, when she carelessly steps close to me in agitation. Perhaps she's confident the other four can back her up, but it's still an immature mistake. Well, all of them are already in my range anyway, so it doesn't make much of a difference.

"It may sound like I'm lying, but I don't determine it myself. I simply follow instructions left behind... from a benefactor who won't be named, of course." I bow lightly in apology. "I hope you understand, miss elf."

Her body twitches as my moniker strike right home.

To normal humans, beings such as myself and Filvis here are ostrascized, if not outright cursed and hated. They fear and despise things they don't understand or those so powerful they're out of the mortals' reach, afraid of their own survival. I imagine it's partly why she wears such a concealing getup, and partly due to her own personal reasons... namely, how many males will swoon every single time she shows up in front of them.

"Enough."

Vivian steps forward menacingly, motioning Filvis to return to her original position.

"You understand we cannot accept such a roundabout answer, Mr. I-Can't-Say. Our King prizes justice, so come with us, and let yourself be judged fairly. We swear we will never treat you inhumanely, even if you just shot a Knight of the Round Table."

Wow. Her senses can reach that far? I seriously underestimated her...

"Hmm... well, how about a trade? I'll tell you information I _can_ actually share, in exchange for my freedom?"

A glint of greed in their eyes is all the opening I need.

Really, these magi are very easy to rile up, aren't they?

"For example, information regarding Sir Lancelot's condition, since both our goals seem to be the same."

Vivian hesitates slightly, but her curiosity and desire to fulfill her mission overcomes her.

"Speak, and then we'll discuss your release."

"Ah, no, no! I'll like your word right here and now, or I shall leave you with nothing."

"And what makes you think you can escape?"

Before any of them can react, I press a knife onto Filvis's dainty neck, my body already behind her in an instant. I make sure I don't touch her needlessly, since elves are sensitive to that, but the cold steel kisses her skin, ready to sever her head at a twitch of my hand.

"This."

Filvis trembles, although I can't judge her expression from behind her. An enchanting floral scent wafts from her hair, and a normal man will be brought to his knees with just a whiff... but I'm not 'normal'. The rest of them instantly put up full guards, two in the front and two in the back, all of them already halfway finished with their chanting.

However, it seems none of them has the strength to subdue me without harming their comrade, and realizing the blade I'm holding is an enchanted one, Vivian cancels her spell, followed by the others. A presence of a spell still lingers in the air, and I recognize it coming from the girl in front of me, but again, she's not fast enough to avoid death if I so desire.

Playfully, I lift the short knife from her neck, knocking her hat and veil off.

"Well, that's just a demonstration. No need to be so alarmed!" I chuckle, jumping backwards to avoid a counterattack from the elf.

Her hands shoot up to cover her face, but her small hands can't possibly cover everything. Her long, lustrous black hair reaching past her hips compliments her red eyes and fair skin. Her face is a classical beauty of elves, with delicate lips and triangular feature, married to graceful eyebrows and nose. Like I said, it's fortunate I'm not a normal male, or I'll be in trouble.

Filvis hurriedly regroups, and the formation now is far more to my liking: no one to surround me, just five abreast in front. Good thing the plan works out.

The sound of teeth grinding against each other echoes from Vivian's mouth, before she orders, "Stand down."

That order isn't well received, with multiple protests coming from her comrades, but an intense glare shoots them all down.

"On the name of my teacher, Great Magus Merlin..."

"Miss! What-" A squeak comes from Filvis, but it doesn't deter Vivian's words.

"...and my name, Vivian Ambrosius, I swear to grant this nameless archer freedom, in exchange for every information he has on the case of Sir Lancelot, and a guarantee for future negotiations and contacts. Do you solemnly swear?"

I raise my knife, and flick a glob of blood from a knick in my thumb towards her. The droplet gracefully floats into her palm, completing the geas.

I cough to start my explanation.

"Right. Er... Sir Lancelot is having an affair with Her Majesty the Queen."

In hindsight, perhaps starting off with that major bombshell is a mistake.

The five of them are stunned, clearly at loss for words. I assume they didn't know of the fact, which is why I told them, but the impact is greater than what I expected.

In this instance, silence will be detrimental to progress, so I continue, ignoring their gaping mouth. Well, I can only see Filvis's, since the other four still has their veils on, but the point stands.

"So, when he visits Corbenic, he was put under a spell which releases all control of his lust, leading to him sleeping with Princess Elaine. The intercourse results in a child, and the good knight couldn't bear to kill her along with the baby, but his pride and duty as a knight, and also a lover to Queen Guinevere, causes conflict inside his mind. This turns him into the crazy drunkard you all just saw. Am I clear to this point?"

Numbly, they nod.

"The one you have to chase after is this person who enchanted Sir Lancelot, which I suspect is the court magi, Dame Brusen. I fear she has dark plans for the Kingdom, but I have to prevent those two Knights over there from killing each other, so I can't take action just yet. I shot the arrow at Sir Lancelot's arm, not at a lethal point, so don't worry about him."

I omit the fact 'Dame Brusen' is just a cover for Nimue's acts. This information has already overwhelmed them, and to know a Faerie Queen is also involved will be one step too much. Even if they do, the ones who can properly fight her is me and their teacher, Merlin. I have a plan to let him in the know, but the time isn't right.

"This is all I can share for now. Are you satisfied, miss?" I ask Vivian.

She makes some unintelligible noises, mostly 'ah's and 'uh's for a while, before snapping herself awake to face me.

"Yes... I think... Yes, that's satisfactory." She continues, saying, "Can I hope for you not to take further action in the future?"

Her question is as predicted. Who wants an unaccountable third party calling the shots regarding the events in one's own Kingdom? They'll want to put me under a leash, with the first step secured in the previous geas, but that's as far as they'll go. No one should be able to wield as much power as I have, not even myself. That's why I don't want to go all-out, because doing so has serious consequences which I can't pay.

"We'll see about that."

With that roundabout answer, I leave, Prana Burst propelling me out of their vision.


	12. War Preparations

**Hey, guys and girls! How's everyone's summer going? I hope this will alleviate your brand new school day woes!**

 **Once again, I thank you for the continued support from your reviews, favorites, and follows. Maybe most of you have gotten bored of it, but it really means alot for me, especially for the motivation. For those of you who have been with me from the first chapter, and continuously review, I dedicate this chapter to you (You know who you are!). So, for this chapter, and many more to come, please keep on reviewing! And for you guys who only read without reviewing, giving favorites or follows, I understand your decision, because I used to be you as well. I only wish for you to make that first step, to open a whole new area in your participation in this site and fanfiction writing in general.**

 **And with that, enjoy the story! Don't forget to review, follow, and favorite.**

 **Disclaimer: Well, not a single one of you have complained I didn't put this part in recent chapters, so really, what's it for?**

* * *

For a village this far north, the activity currently ongoing is unusual.

Just north of the Hadrian's Wall, on the outskirts of the Kingdom of Bernicia, the village is just another hunting-farming community, trying to make a living in the harsh lands. King Ida rules with an iron fist, hard but fair, and his conquest plans has been ambitious, to say the least. Fortunately, being in an unstrategic location, most of the villagers managed to escaped the military draft a few years ago.

The rise of King Arthur has caused a bit of unrest in the small kingdom recently, but for this remote village, that name holds no more weight than a famous statesman form a neighboring city. For decades, they live their life in relative peace. That's not to say all of them are weak, since some form of military training is a requisite to defend the village from the wild animals' onslaught of their farms, sometimes happening up to three times a year.

However, everywhere the eye can see, men, women, and children are running around frantically. Some are building wooden tools, others are cutting the forest, and the rest does the odd jobs here and there along with supplying the main workers. Some may think a festival is going on, but the air looming around the villagers is that of manic desperation.

In the middle, two eye-catching women are directing the flow of people with great precision.

Their looks will arouse many suitors anywhere in the Kingdom, such is their beauty. However, their bearing clearly states to all males in the area they're not just normal women, but instead hold far greater power than anyone currently in the village. One has a slim figure, her youthful appearance enhanced by her cheerful expression and lively green eyes. The other is taller and curvier, and her soft features form a stern look, watching over the people intensely.

The work goes on until well into the sunset, and right after all the torches necessary for lighting are lit, all of them take a break. The work has been tough, as seen with the exhausted bodies lying around, but they all sport a satisfied grin on their faces, and those who can't even move a muscle projects a fulfilled aura around them. The children nestle with their parents after the women serve dinner; overall, a peaceful end to the day.

With the other alternative being death by warfare, this kind of work is menial.

"Miss Mordred, how well do you see we will fare?"

A stocky man in his middle years speaks, sweat profusely dripping from his forehead. He uses a wet cloth to wipe his face, but since they're sitting around a fireplace, the act will only repeat itself after a few more minutes. Powerfully built, if not entirely proportional due to his bloated belly, his bearded face makes one assume him as a hard laborer or a craftsman.

This man, Glyn, is the village chief.

Ordinarily, the village chief is elected by the populace during chaotic times. He is no different, but his case can be slightly more justified than others, due to a claim to a noble blood. Mordred has her reservations regarding the fact, but there's no point in debating something as useless as pedigree; she herself, after all, is the rightful heir to the throne, whether she wants it or not. Thinking about it will cause her mood to sour, so she relents on it.

Cecilia, on the other hand, is not so tolerant.

Narrowing her eyes, she replies in place of her master.

"Well, this is just the minimum, Chief Glyn. The odds have increased in our favor, but only very slightly. We ought to exercise the utmost caution, even if everything goes to plan."

He grins at her answer, nodding enthusiastically. He's not very bright in the head, it seems, for missing Cecilia's harsh tone. Mordred simply smiles at the banter, her manners the only thing preventing her to break out in a full-blown laughter.

Cecilia was born to a commoner's house, not even knowing her parent's name before she was adopted to the Alcott House. She's seen her fair share of people, but she still has gripes regarding those who can't fulfil the duty given to them due to their heritage or position. In front of the villagers, she can't actually berate the village chief outright, considering her position as an outsider, but there's nothing preventing her from shooting the occasional barbed comments here and there.

Plus, she's not stupid. She knows what troop morale means, even with these relatively untrained villagers. Causing a ruckus will not only cause a drop in fighting spirit, it may also give rise to rebellions under pressure.

They are facing an invasion from the north, which is why they're slaving away to built these feats of engineering.

The demon Galehaut is planning an attack against the Kingdom from two fronts, north and east. Having wormed his way onto the minds of the rulers of both the Picts and the Saxons, he set the stage for an all-out war which will bring the Kingdom to ruin. in all honesty, both Shirou and Mordred suspects the war is just a pretext of another plot, one which he's currently investigating, leaving Mordred and Cecilia to handle the matters on the surface.

Using a few aerial recoinassance automaton infiltrator, or ARAI, as Mordred likes to shorten them, they have a scope of the Picts' current troop deployment. True to their reputation, many magi are spread across their ranks, consisting of a confederation of small kingdoms descended from the Celts. Their ranks are powerful, perhaps a match to Camelot's rank of knights and cavalry, and boosted by hypnosis and drugs, makes a fearless, come-and-kill-me army.

In short, there's no way a group of villagers armed with nothing more than homemade spears and crude swords can face against them and survive.

The fact they number about 500 men helps little, which is boosted from the amalgamation of neighboring villages to bolster their chances of survival. In fact, Glyn is assisted by the chieftains from those villages, reducing Mordred and Cecilia's work to organize the haphazard army.

From the information they have gathered, the army will arrive in the next two days.

However, almost no tension can be felt around the makeshift campsite erected from the remains of the dismantled villages. It's a fact which further annoys Cecilia, as even if she understands their point of view, the ease of which they conduct their duties is grating to her senses.

For decades, they have never tasted war. Some of the oldest generations still remember it, but the impact didn't remain until today. They reacted to the two girls' warning with surprising haste and alertness, but even so, compared to hardened soldiers who spent half their lives battling against foreign forces, their will is severely lacking. In their minds, they're just trying to 'survive', not 'win'. Well, that's the goal anyway, since victory is pretty much impossible without her master wiping the army with her full strength.

It's not an avenue they can pursue, since Clarent can be so powerful now it's hard to regulate and restore the damage it can unleash. Personally, Cecilia wants to test herself against those men in blue paint, having spent the last few months under the training of two of the best swordsman in the world. Her improvements are such she never really hunt big games with any seriousness anymore, but a human opponent is different from a boar of a pack of wolves.

' _Oh, well... they'll wise up when it happens, I guess...'_

With that, she excuses herself and goes to the watchtower to take the first rotation.

* * *

Bedivere grits his teeth as one of his subordinates gingerly wraps a bandage across his torso. It's immersed in herbs to help break the clotted blood forming several bruises, but it still hurts nonetheless. Several of his bones are cracked, though it's a blessing in hindsight, as he can leave with far more grievous wounds when facing a murderous Lancelot.

After the fight, Lancelot escaped with a hole in his arm, courtesy of a mysterious archer who saved the effeminate knight's life. Bedivere pursues him persistently, but the traitor gave him the slip in the forest, leaving his group at an impasse. Seriously, how can a drunk and crazy man managed to run away so skillfully?

That question is just one of many rampaging inside his mind. Many mysteries lay around unsolved regarding this case, and he may have to call upon the other knights to correlate their findings. Something big is going on, and he needs to have the bigger picture before taking further actions.

First, how did Lancelot manage to descend to such depravity? The man he knows isn't one who's so weak-willed, and a broken heart or two shouldn't affect him so much. Bedivere isn't exactly clear on Lancelot's romantic circumstances, but he assumes it's just another momentary fling, something Gawain and Kay indulges a lot. It causes a fair bit of headache to settle the disputes with the women's families, but nothing too dangerous.

Second, why didn't Lancelot return? It's not a problem which will get him severely punished, as the King gives them quite a lot of leeway with the Knights' personal lives. Why must he run, and risk being branded as a traitor?

Third, what enchantments did he possess to fight so well while under the influence of alcohol and mental disorder? He never saw any accessories on Lancelot's body, nor detect any spell being used. Granted, Bedivere's pretty terrible with Magecraft, as is most people, but his experience should compensate. Perhaps a stimulant? It's not an impossible notion...

In any case, this issue is far too complicated to solve without having all the clues in one single possession.

"Get me the managraph," he quietly commands his men.

However, before they can leave, a hurried knock on the tent's frame catches their attention.

One of the guards comes in, not with a managraph, but with a messenger in tow.

And a royal messenger at that.

Drab in high-quality cotton, this person _needs_ to be conspicuous to avoid attacks to his life, as is the norm in many kingdoms. Bright colors are preferable, but since Briton's weather is a fickle, King Arthur decides on a pure white uniform to avoid fading. The man put his hands on his knees for a moment, just to catch his breath.

' _An urgent summon?'_

Coughing once, the messenger unseals a scroll from an ornate box. The box is lavishly decorated, perhaps a bit of a waste of gold and jewels, but it marks the contents inside as a message direct from the King. They have begun to use the managraph a lot recently for quick, urgent messages, so all this trouble must be to announce an official inquiry regarding a problem.

The messenger proclaims in a large voice, just enough to be heard across the main tent.

"I hereby declare the King's words!"

The men who's been working on menial tasks immediately gather, eager to see what news he brings.

"The Kingdom will face an invasion soon, from the north and the east. The Picts have gathered beyond Hadrian's Wall, and the Saxons have landed and began their invasion through the eastern ports. I command Sir Bedivere to rendevous with the main force heading north, joining the army of Sir Kay to repel the barbarians. Make haste!"

Without even stopping for tea, the messenger leaves as soon as he finishes reading the scroll.

Placing his face inside his palm, Bedivere sighs tiredly.

"Well, you heard him."

Standing up, he reaches for his clothes and walks outside.

"Move out!"

* * *

"Are you sure this is alright, Altria?"

The question is asked by Merlin, who's sitting by her side inside a carriage.

Of course, carrying the King, it cannot be just another simple, bought-from-the-barn carriage. Lined with exquisite carvings created by the finest craftsmen, and decorated with silver and bronze, it's a prime example of royal opulence. Inside, it's swathed in carefully tanned hide, chosen from the best bulls around, letting the occupants to sit around in comfort and luxury.

To be honest, she never likes this carriage. It's far too big of a moving target. However, as the ruler, she does have expectations to fulfill, and this is the least of them. She can't wait until they get to the plains so she can switch to riding on horseback, as she so loves.

To Merlin's inquiry, she offhandedly answers, "You seem agitated. Why is that? Losing faith in your own Magecraft?"

"I never like baiting tactics in the first place," he argues. His youthful face is unhabitually stern, almost threatening to show his real age. His eyes, as always, is a different matter entirely, possessing sagely wisdom tempered by the decades gone by.

Her face sours.

"Neither do I, especially using Gwen as the bait." She lets out a sigh, which turns into a sad smile. "But it's necessary."

"Yes, of course," he says, a small amount of spite in his voice. "If you keep this up, you won't last, you know?"

She smirks at him. "Haven't you grown more considerate, lately? Where has the annoying Merlin gone?"

"He's dead as soon as my love diiieeeesssssss...!"

Laughing at the intentionally dramatic lament, she focuses her attention back to the surroundings through a small opening in the carriage. A window is far too expensive to manufacture in small pieces, and since the carriage has multitudes of spells embeded into its structure and the surroundings, she never has to fear a stray arrow coming through the window, enchanted or not.

"It's fine."

She steels her heart.

"Because I'm the king, after all."

Looking wistfully at his student, Merlin can merely shake head.

"Leaving that aside, oh, dear King," he muses. "Is it wise to leave Camelot at this point to engage the Picts? I mean, Bagdemagus is a capable leader, but he's not me or you. I fear the shadows, not the light, and the former is what he's weak at."

She replies, "Like I said, have you so little faith in your own protective Magecraft? Even if, and only _if_ , there's an opening someone can exploit, that person will be exposed and Bagdemagus will deal with him."

"What a far-fetched gamble."

"It is a gamble," she agrees. "But I have to take this risk... to avoid something like what happened to Lancelot occurring again."

"Routing out spies isn't that simple, you know."

"And yet, you didn't propose any other idea when I called the emergency meeting." Her eyes narrow in irritation. "If you have something better in mind, why didn't you speak out then?"

He grins naively. "To be honest, I don't."

"Then stop nitpicking."

She falls into silence, deciding to give her mind a bit of a rest before a future diplomatic meetings with the local rulers on the way. They can be very obstructive, so she needs all of her mental faculty to deal with them properly, instead of just chopping their heads off with Excalibur. Which, she thinks, won't even stain the blade due to the stupidity she's killing off the planet.

They continue the journey for a few more miles, before the sun starts to set and they make camp.

* * *

A soft hum echoes across the room, bathing it in a green glow.

"Did you see him?" A voice asks, strict and urgent.

The person asked simply shakes his head, focusing on the healing of his arm.

The first voice sighs, and throws himself into the old, moldy sofa provided by their hypnotized guest.

Galehaut closes his eyes in exasperation, fists clenched with frustration.

It's not the first time he feels like this. His main plan is going along on schedule, but the sheer size of the project means it depends on various small, but no less important tasks and events. More than half of these seemingly circumstantial things has been derailed by an unknown party, of which Nimue still steadfastly refuses to tell the identity of. He can only glimpse the ability and sheer tenacity of this individual or organization, since she's so on guard against them.

And, once again, they interfered.

However, this is the first time they have taken direct offensive actions. Mostly, they simply sabotage or hinder the things he needs, whether it's supplies or his agents' work, managing to stay in the shadows. Now, one of them directly attacked Lancelot, his sworn brother, from a far enough distance that he can't get a bead on the perpetrator.

Looking at the wound, this is no mere archer.

The knight's hand, now having finished its healing, was shot clean through between his two forearm bones. The projectile, an unknown arrow or bullet, severed the main muscle, effectively paralyzing the entire arm. The hole wasn't jagged or straight, but the skin around the perfectly-round hole was slightly twisted and singed, prove of the immense rotation the projectile experienced. Of course, to cover such a massive distance, there had to be spiral grooves cut into the projectile to overcome the aerodynamic drag.

At least, that's the theory.

It's such a shame no trace of the projectile remains, but the demon is now certain it's not something made out of pure energy. It's a solid object, but how did it look? What's the shape, weight, and enchantments (of which no doubt there had to be many)? So many questions remained unanswered, and that's not even going into the archer's identity.

But that's for another time.

The moment is nigh... to make this brother of his a King.

Galehaut himself has long abandoned the idea of ruling, having acknowledged Arthur Pendragon and his Knights of the Round Table to be a superior governor of the people. For years, he lived in peace and quiet, distancing himself from the populace, since his role in history as a foe of the young King was finished. It was a sombre way to live, for an imaginary demon like him preferred to be in contact with the humans who birthed him from their dreams.

However, if fate decided to screw over the one man he cared for the most, he couldn't just sit around without doing anything.

He himself didn't understand his affection for Lancelot at first. The humans viewed a close relationship between two men with a positive connotation, as long as it didn't develop into something more. Indeed, many males bonded and sworn brotherhood left and right with their best friends, and even some empires across the ocean permitted a romantic relationship between two individuals of the same sexes, male or female.

He was certain this emotion wasn't the romantic one, since he never understood and felt human love. What drew him towards the knight was his ability, his conduct, his speech, and his charisma, as did many men and women. Inwardly, he laughed bitterly at the thought of him, a powerful demon, categorizing himself below a mere human, but he bore no ill will at all towards Lancelot.

Then, perhaps he saw the young man as a son? Brother?

In any case, he had planned for Lancelot to take over his riches and influence. Hopefully, the knight could make better use of them than he could, boosting the greatness of the Kingdom of Briton.

Or, at least, that's the plan.

Now, with Lancelot's happiness destroyed and laid in tatters, he had to act.

A kingdom which couldn't appreciate a man as fine as this didn't deserve Galehaut's loyalty.

He never planned for a mass mobilization of army in this way. Violence has never been the answer, and he's sure it hasn't changed even now. Politics is a subtle art, and must be wielded just as subtly, making it his main way to restore Lancelot's honor and standing.

Then that _bitch_ showed up.

And everything goes to hell.

In Nimue's eyes, there's no option which was even on nodding terms with the word 'peace'. She courted chaos, as much as her counterpart symbolizes order, always trying to create the most destructive path towards a goal. Both the Ladies of the Lake were benevolent, having assisted humanity for generations as the Faerie Queens, but the method they used for each of their champions was like night and day.

In short, Nimue was a 'destructive savior', granting wishes in the most evil kind of ways, twisting words and smashing hopes.

But everything was far too late. Now, he has to walk the walk, to destruction or victory.

"Galehaut..." Lancelot murmurs in a small voice.

Opening his eyes, he stares at his sworn brother with a glowing pair of eyes.

"Should I join your campaign?"

Gritting his teeth, he gives Lancelot the answer he never wants to say.

"...yes."

Standing up, he waves his hand to lit up more candles, revealing the notes and maps on another large table. Lancelot joins him beside the pile of utensils to one corner, scanning the map with a trained eye, befitting a veteran knight.

"I need you to go north," Galehaut says, placing a new marker on the map.

On the norther part, it depicts the upper part of the island of Briton, showing clearly the Hadrian and Antonine Wall. A part of it is colored, marking Galehaut's army's advancements, about halfway between the two ancient walls. The new marker is placed right at the leading edge of the colored part, on the figurative army spearhead.

Lancelot hums, thinking deeply.

"Is the enemy so great I have to take to the front?"

"No, it's the opposite." The demon places a hand on his shoulder, saying, "You'll be there disguised, as a normal foot soldier. It'll give you a better reputation than outright claiming command of a foreign army, even with my recommendations."

"Is it fine to go all-out, then?"

"I'll leave that to your judgment."

He nods tiredly, bags under his eyes after a few days of lacking sleep. Galehaut hopes he hasn't lost his desire to battle, or this great knight will only become a rat squashed under the march of an unrelenting army.

Returning back to his seat, Lancelot asks, "So, you'll be heading east, then?"

The demon nods. "There's a troublesome opponent there... and also on your side, actually. Keep your eyes open, and retreat if necessary."

"Fashionably."

Galehaut cocks an eyebrow. "You're not going to inquire the identity of our oppnents?"

"Does it matter?"

Lancelot's voice has lost much of its original charming qualities, leaving a broken shell of a man. Silently, Galehaut is sure Guinevere will slap him so hard he'll have a concussion, seeing him wasted like this. Not to mention the King herself...

"Isn't that your philosophy? Never start a fight without proper information?"

"It doesn't matter now," Lancelot replies offhandedly. "All I have left is this body of mine. I won't waste it again."

Somehow, at that answer, Galehaut's lips turn into a proud smile, determination burning in his eyes.

"Very well. You may face the Kingdom's army and your brothers-in-arms, or even the King. Are you fine with that?"

The knight flashes a hollow smile. "If it can help me, I'll do anything."

He turns his head to look at the ceiling, as if trying to stare at the stars themselves.

"Anything."

* * *

"Oh, wow..."

Perched on a high vantage point, I stare at the direction of the small grassland just a few miles inland from sea.

That's not the Saxons...

Well, to be accurate, it's not _only_ the Saxons.

The army from across the ocean has arrived to do battle with King Arthur. Historically, this army should be the Saxons' main invasion, where the King eventually triumphed by demolishing their ranks with superior strategy and cavalry prowess. The wetlands of the Kingdom of Briton is harsh on infantry and supplies, while Arthur Pendragon's army who boasted great individual strength and speed, along with precise formations, always takes advantage of that.

That's only good if the Roman Empire doesn't suddenly decide to join forces with the Saxons, though.

The past few weeks has been all about building a base of operations this far north, separated from their main kingdom inland. The resistance has been surprisingly light, the outpost for the Britons moving back gradually to give their opponent some breathing space. I'm not sure if this is just a tactic from Altria, but the situation right now looks grim. Even if the majority of the Knights of the Round Table arrive here, which they can't because of the movements up north, they'll be hard-pressed to attain victory like this.

Well, if Altria and Merlin decide to go all-out, it'd be a different story, but...

That said, it's fortunate Mordred and Cecilia are handling things on the northern front. I hope she won't do any reckless moves...

Thankfully, the British forces have arrived safely, Tristan and Lamorak leading the way. There's no need for them to recognize my presence here, so I'm hiding myself for now. It seems like there's several of Merlin's students among their ranks, judging by the bright colors emitted sparsely between the men.

Oh, there's Filvis...

Now, my job has just gotten harder.

After the encounter in the forest, the group must have studied my magic energy signature for future analysis. No matter how much I try to suppress it, there's always some residual magic energy lingering around, since I haven't Traced the Assassin-class Servant's ability to stay hidden. If I carelessly use Magecraft now, there's a big chance this easily-excited elf will be able to pinpoint my location.

If that happens... I may not be able to escape as smoothly as before.

The group of magi she's in seems to differ from last one. First, there's no Vivian, so that's one less headache to think about. Second, the quality and quantity of magic energy emitted by them, while difficult to analyze properly from this far out, is lower than the group I've encountered. Maybe this is the 'second tier' or something? Not everyone can be as talented or powerful as the first group... I think.

Hmm... how should I play this, I wonder?

Ah, Galehaut has appeared among the orderly rank of Saxons and Romans. Viewed from a third-person perspective, I can easily detect teleportation Magecraft, but this demon is using a different kind of spatial-manipulation to achieve the same effect. A human's Magecraft and a demon's can be very different, so I'm using every chance I have to study his abilities and habits.

Clearly, he's my main target.

I'm not sure why he suddenly made this move a few months ago. After he was defeated by Altria, he went into recluse without much of a fuss. Of course, Nimue must have pulled some strings in places I didn't know and couldn't reach, so maybe that's the real explanation, but there must be a solid excuse how a powerful person like him could be so easily ordered around obediently.

His close relationships... Let's see...

Hmm... Lancelot is his closest friend, and judging by how he managed to escape Bedivere's and my eyes back then in the village, he and Galehaut must've come into contact somehow. Was Nimue threatening the knight _and_ the demon at the same time? A double-hostage situation?

If Galehaut is here... then, did Lancelot go north? I can't detect him anywhere within a few miles from here, with subtle detection wards and my Eyes, so it's either that, or he went into hiding again. Both options aren't good for my cause, but the former is better.

If he really went north, he'll be on a collision course with Mordred.

I'm not biased or anything, but she'll have the upper hand on him.

Besides, following that logic, it must mean Altria and Merlin will also be there. I don't know why she deliberately left the east side this weak... According to history, she should've been here...

Oh.

Oh, crap.

She got me.

It's a lure to bait me into this position, knowing I won't keep quiet about the whole situation and try to intervene to minimize the casualties. Either her or Merlin has figured out my general intention, but since they don't have any concrete information, they're using the entire eastern battlefront as a giant noose to trap me.

Geez...

Sometimes, a trap is so big you can actually miss it.

Annoyingly, I can't do anything about it. I can't leave, since I'd rather kill myself here and now if I abandoned anyone to die, just to keep my higher playing position. They put Filvis here to checkmate me, knowing she'll pursue me to the end of the earth of she has to. That girl is awfully dedicated to her superiors, and I have no doubt of her abilites to force out some of my hidden ones.

If Alaya asks me this is the correct time to reveal myself, I will answer in the negative.

Cornered like this... Argh, I still have much to learn!

Then... okay, might as well...

* * *

In the main tent, the air is tense, almost being able to be cut by a proverbial knife.

The two commanders of the army, Sir Tristan and Lamorak, stand by the side of the table, various documents spread between them. Supply reports, spy information, enemy placement, and geographical map are neatly positioned to allow easy scanning of the documents. Aided by the boosted mental capacity from the support of Merlin's students, they're trying to figure out how to repel the enemy.

That's the goal: repel.

Against an enemy this size, their army is lacking. To compare, they have about 1,000 cavalry and 2,500 infantry, plus about 500 or so supply troops. The opposition has about an additional third to the amout, totaling around 6,000 men. Plus, the shock addition of the Roman army throws a literal spanner into their tactics.

The Saxons are already a formidable enemy in their own right. A few generations ago, both sides were still using primitive tools and tactics, allied with a small number of army and an even lower amount of training and discipline. The Britons are now proud of how far they've come, but the other side hasn't stood still either.

Now, with the boost of the world-famous Roman Empire on their back, it can be said the lethality of the Saxon army has pretty much doubled. Additionally, Tristan's eyes caught the troop that was sent over by the Emperor during an earlier scout, and he nearly choked on his own breath. Of all the people they could send over, they sent the best of the best...

The Excubitors.

And they brought their famed commander Justin with them.

Truthfully, in a one-on-one duel, even Tristan himself isn't confident of victory against that man.

Additionally, the elite imperial guards of the Roman Emperor, the Excubitors, are more than a match for their own trained knights. Each and every one of them can probably mow down dozens of regular foot soldiers alone, much less in formation. Their equipment are on par with the best King Arthur can offer his own knights, but in vastly greater quantity, allowing the entire troop to be donned in the best armor and weapons.

Really, they're at a massive disadvantage.

There's also various things that didn't add up.

First, the King himself was scheduled to arrive here with additional reinforcements. Instead, what arrived were a group of Merlin's disciples, instead of ranks of men in chainmail and carts of supplies. He understood the magi's strength well, and even having one of them could drastically alter the battlefield, but against that number of elite troops? Everyone can understand his pessimism, even the woman in a veil who seems to be leading the magi.

' _What's wrong with taking those damn masks off?!'_ Lamorak screams in his head.

Second, the speed of which the Roman army arrived was unnatural. Along the way, they must've crossed the Gaellic area, where various settlements are in opposition to the Roman rule. There's no way to avoid loss of men if they marched all the way from Constantinople to here to join the Saxons.

The prediction is that they also have a few capable magi of their own, shielding them from harm on the way. Thankfully, the Excubitors didn't deploy their full unit, having to also defend the invasion from the continent of Asia, so the ones who arrived here number only about one hundred, plus supplies. There could be more Tristan and Merlin's disciples can't see, but they have to focus their efforts somewhere else.

Third, when did the Saxons and Romans become so chummy? There's no report of them having even trade agreements between their territories, even if the Saxons' eastern border in the main continent directly connects with the Romans' northwestern one. Was there someone who brought them together? This 'third party' Merlin has mentioned in the past?

So many questions, yet so little answers.

For the first time, the two Knights of the Round Table aren't confident they can return home alive.

Suddenly, a male magus shouts, "Incoming!"

All of them, having practiced their whole life, goes into combat stance, even the junior squires. Patiently, they wait for the enemy attack to come, ready to counter at any moment. The attack is unexpected, but there's no sense in panicking now. They can only-

The tent's flap opens, revealing a red-headed male strolling easily into the room.

A female voice spits out, "You-!"

He simply smiles at them, his body language relaxed.

"Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Having a spot of bother?"

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **M**

 **Managraph**

 **An ancient device used to communicate long-distance without the use of connective strings. The sender device records the writing on parchment, converting it into a magic formula, and beams it to the receiver device. Because of its cost, the ability to convey voice and images is deactivated, making it a somewhat cumbersome manner to converse. Far faster than letters, it's still popular in use with royalty and large armies throughout the lands. A modern person will scoff at its impracticality, for a modern telegraph is cheaper, lighter, and more accessible than it.**


	13. Meetings of Hate

**Wow, what an anime festival in my city! I recently visited it, drooling over the exhibitions, wincing at the inflated food and drink prices, sweating at the shade-less queue at the entrance, and shouting and dancing until I'm worn out at the concert. The atmosphere is intense, and keeps getting better and better every year. Let me know how your country (or city) celebrates the anime/manga world as well in the reviews! By the way, I'm slightly disappointed at Aimer's performance, only bringing and using her keyboardist. Can you imagine how Brave Shine sounds like as an instrumental piece? not that it's not good, but very underwhelming compared to the UBW opening. Those of you eager to see her performance next (cough-Singapore-cough), don't get too hyped, alright?**

 **By the way, I added some glossary things I forgot to put in the previous chapters. Check them out!**

 **Disclaimer: The F/GO merchandise are great! Now, make them as an eighth-generation console game, TYPE-MOON! It's an order!**

* * *

The woods bristle with life, the artificial marks of human movement clear across the forest floor.

Easily, Lancelot hops over jutting tree roots and the random depressions on the ground, leading the march of the Picts army. The men stationed at the front keeps up with no apparent additional exertion, a testament to their skill and training. Even in the dark, the army's march through the woods remain mostly unhindered. Of course, the supply carts are slowing them down, but not as much as a normally-trained army will have.

The night sky is dark, with only scattered stars giving symbolic lights. Tonight is a new moon, a time chosen specifically for the assault. Each and every one of the soldiers' eyes glow a menacing green in the dark, an enchantment granted by the elder magi of the army. Their bodies are painted with tribal blue spirals and lines, all of it covering the runes powering and protecting them.

It's a full-scale attack towards the Kingdom of Britain, Lancelot's birthplace, so the leaders pull out all the stop to ensure success.

Sadly, not all of the soldiers can cope with the physical and mental enchantments. Through trial and error, they've sorted the ones who are compatible and those who aren't, and grouping those who are created a sizeable elite troop. He's not that clear on the actual numbers, save for the fact he possess no chance at all if all of them decides to gang up on him.

To avoid standing out, he also has his body painted as well, though the enchantments drawn onto his skin is Galehaut's, not the Picts'. He's been briefed on the difference, but in practice, the performance differential isn't that significant. He can take on maybe half a dozen of them at the same time, due to the superior skill and Magecraft preparation, but any more and he'd struggle. Honestly, he hoped for a more robust increase in abilities, but considering his recent mental state, Galehaut made a good decision in saying no.

One of the advance scouts signals them to stop.

Immediately, the troop formation changes from a relatively even front end to an organized blocks of several battalions. This is to counter any suspected enemy threat or attacks, whether the news from the front is good or not. The middle section rotates inward, allowing the generals a better look of the front.

Being stationed quite far forward, Lancelot barely needs to relocate to see the same thing as the scouts.

It's an abandoned village, just smack dab in their army's way.

After they passed the Antonine Wall, they did plunder several villages for supplies. Fortunately, the army did nothing much more than that, allowing Lancelot to remain hidden, lest he'd stop any unnecessary actions. Overall, progress has been going along smoothly, and some villagers even joined their ranks as additional troops to attain some more riches.

However, this village is completely dismantled, all the way to the houses' foundations.

Clearly, this place has the word 'trap' written all over it.

An elderly person hunches forward, helped by a pair of assistants. He slowly wobbles towards where the village's fence should be, then spread some silvery liquid forwards.

Instantly, the area in front of them glows with a white light, in the shape of a dome. The liquid rebounds on the dome's virtual surface, before falling back to the ground and losing its luster. The barrier, now that Lancelot knows what it is, turns transparent once more, inviting all reckless challengers forward.

"Hmph!"

With a hoarse grunt, the magus steps strongly forward, palms pointing towards the sky.

" _Bloighich!"_

The invisible dome shatters silently, to the relief of all who are watching.

However, the eagerness of the young men to advance forward is curbed once more by a signal from the old magus.

This time, he takes out something form inside his robe, and throws it forward to the ground. The object, which looks like a solid orb from afar, bounces normally across the ground before rolling into a halt.

Instantly, the ball catches fire, turning into ashes in mere seconds.

"Hahahaha!" The old magus guffaws.

He turns towards the army, arms holds high in the sky.

"Behold, everyone!" He shouts in a large voice, unbefitting of his weak body. "I shall defeat this magus's machinations!"

The ashes from the orb floats into the air, before scattering in all direction.

Instantly, the ground where the ashes land shines bright red, before it flickers a few times and dims altogether. A rogue wind carries a scent of burnt cinders towards the soldiers' noses, indicating the spell has indeed been defused.

As if on cue, a huge cheer roars across the area to celebrate their success.

If they are concerned regarding stealth, none of the leaders show it. Instead, they join in the cheer, almost encouraging their army to shout louder and louder, as if to defy the heavens itself. Lancelot, confused, decides to follow the general mood and cheer halfheartedly. As a knight, he prefers not to gloat over his victories, lest he be carried astray and leave an opening. But, hey, it's just him. Maybe it's the different culture up north?

Once more, the formation rotates inward, allowing those further back to move out front. In this case, it's the supply troops marching on, planning on using the absolutely decimated village as a temporary base camp. The formation's wings starts to surround the area, securing the place to prevent any wild animals coming in a rush to devour precious supplies.

Lancelot shrugs the odd schedule and follows his regimen to their designated resting spot.

After a few more minutes, the dark sky turns almost indigo, signalling the coming of daybreak.

' _The Picts' army really has a weird deployment tactics...'_

The knight is used to normal marches across battlefields, in a sense of using daylight as the main time to advance and the night to rest. Instead, this army is the other way around, taking watch rotations during the day as the rest of the army takes their sleep while using the cover of darkness to move quickly. He imagines it'd be very demoralizing for the attacked party, having an army suddenly shows up during the day the moment they wake up, but with the cost of not being able to deploy immediately after they set camp.

Well, the intimidation factor should bring them some time, but it's still a routine he's not used to.

Instead, his mind is racing hard to figure out how and why on earth the previous villagers here managed to deconstruct every single building in the area so cleanly and completely. Looking around, there's a lot of wide, open space, and he can't stop thinking how they'll be so vulnerable to enemy attacks if it happens right now. The scouts did a good job, and there's supposedly no threats in the immediate area, but he can't still the nervous tingling in his heart.

With that said, he diligently does his part and turn in for the morning, dropping like a log once his head touches the ground.

Unknowingly, a black shadow slithers behind him, poised to strike.

* * *

"Master, is this alright?" Cecilia asks, worried.

However, said master is also confused of the question. "What do you mean?"

Her student gestures with her head at the clearing positioned someway underneath them, about a mile away. It's a position bordered by a thick vegetation to the village they previously visited, large enough to contain an army. If the enemy decides to attack, they have to go straight through the forest, no other way of doing it. If they have several capable magi in their ranks, they may be able to circumnavigate the natural barrier somewhat, but their pace will be slowed nonetheless.

For an untrained force like the villagers are, it may buy them some more precious time to prepare against the impending invasion. Mordred never plans for them to directly battle the Picts, since it'll be a suicide move, but having a small gap to retreat into is always good. Fortunately, that emergency plan won't be put into place.

Because her father is here.

The clearing is now packed full with the glint off the silver armors worn by the ranks upon ranks of King Arthur's cavalry. Organized, crisp, and professional, their formation's strength is apparent even during this moment of rest. The infantry fans out, circling small units of cavalry, enabling each group versatile movements in case of a sudden assault. Every single commander is clearly well-trained and well-armed, moving with confidence and barking instructions here and there.

In the middle of it all, the main tent's size isn't as conspicuous as other armies, barely twice as big as the soldiers' own tents. Normally, the place where the supreme general resides, along with his aides, is easily identifiable by the size and splendour, as useless as the two adjectives are in real combat. However, true to the rumors, Altria really doesn't like pointless spendings.

It's a trait Mordred can salute to, among very few.

"About..." Cecilia fidgets slightly, before saying, "greeting His Majesty. Isn't that what we should do at least?"

"Hmph," Mordred snorts, but with a smile in her face.

She turns towards an imaginary point behind them, with Cecilia following her stare in confusion.

"Not to be rude, but I just don't want to see your face..."

The air ripples, as a concealment Magecraft is cancelled.

"...Father."

* * *

Truthfully, her heart is shaken.

Altria gazes at the face of the girl, one exactly the same with her own. No, not just the face... it's everything else about her. Her body, her eyes, her hair, her _feel_... all of them matches hers perfectly.

Merlin has warned her about this, but still... seeing the real thing is a major bombshell.

She steels herself, like how she did many times already, putting on her 'King' mask to protect her emotions from being read by those around her. Including... she can't believe she's thinking this, but also including her 'daughter'.

"Merlin."

She squeezes out one word, not trusting her voice to stay as composed as her facial expression. With her command, the taller magus waves his arm, and several wooden chairs and a large table sprouts from the ground. Her personal guards, with their leader, Bedivere, stand guard behind her, refusing to sit down before she does.

She sits down at a random chair, the table's shape allowing her to do so. She favors this round table, since it gives equal rights to speak to all who sit down around it. That said, not many others like it as much as she does, calling it 'demeaning' and 'uncharismatic' for a leader of her caliber.

She gestures at the two ladies standing in front of her to sit at the chairs beside herself, usually reserved for Guinevere and her trusted ministers.

"Please."

"Like I said earlier," the homunculus speaks, "I'm not in the mood to speak to you, Father. Not to be rude, but just say your piece and we'll be in our way."

Bedivere's armor clinks loudly as he stirs, hands on his sword to draw at any moment.

Altria glares at him to stand down, and says to her daughter, "I insist."

The homunculus simply smiles mockingly. "If you care for it, Father, please order me by my name."

It feels like her mouth is made of lead.

Her knights and trusted confidants are all looking at her, expecting her to call this homunculus by her name, as per her request. And yet, Altria cannot say a word. She never knows what Morgan named this child, nor that she ever cares to find out. She had the opportunity to order Merlin to find out more, and yet... all she cared about when she first heard of the homunculus's existence was 'is it a threat'?

Certainly not something a father will do.

Humiliating. Disgusting. Wretched.

The stares from her underling drill into her backs, hot lances twisting and churning themselves towards her heart.

"I thought so," the homunculus mocks her.

She turns her back towards Altria, gesturing towards her female companion.

"Cecilia, this is a waste of time. Let's go prepare and-"

Yet, the female named 'Cecilia' doesn't move a muscle in accordance to the order.

Mordred stares at her student, confused. "Cecilia?"

"Master Mordred..." Cecilia pleads, her eyes staring straight at Mordred's, "I think... His Majesty has a point. There's no sense in splitting our efforts when the enemy is just right there."

Instead of going angry at the attempted insubordination, Mordred merely chuckles.

"You don't understand, do you?" With eyes full of mirth, she says, "You don't understand... what kind of monster is sitting there, pretending to be a king."

The two of them keeps facing each other, oblivious to the drawn swords drawn immediately in response to her words. Bedivere cuts in aggresively, standing between Mordred and Cecilia, sword held firm in his right hand. His face... one can call it livid, others can call it determined, either way, it's certain he won't take those words without doing anything.

"Miss..." he says, his voice stern and hard. "Your words can be accounted for treason. Choose them wisely."

If Mordred feels threatened by the blood lust washing over her, she shows no recognition of it.

Instead, she simply smiles again, momentarily charming Bedivere with her loveliness. The face, oh, so similar to the King himself, is breathtakingly beautiful. Adorned with regal, but soft features, both of them can be called the pinnacle of beauty for men and women altogether. It's only his burning emotion that's keeping him from being captivated by the smile, no matter how inadvertent it is.

"Take it as you want. I'm only saying this because I hate him."

"Miss..." he growls, his sword twitches in warning.

"So? What will you do?" Her smile turns into a predatory smirk. "If you don't act fast, this kingdom will surely fall, with your King leading the way-"

The sound of clashing blades resounds across the small outcrop, nearly deafening the onlookers with its strength.

Bedivere's eyes widen, as his swing is blocked not by this woman before him, or the one behind, but by the King himself.

His eyes shines resolutely, Excalibur not budging even a single bit under Bedivere's full-powered swing. "Bedivere... I did not remember authorizing you to attack."

"This... I... Your Majesty! You shouldn't-"

"What I should and should not is mine to determine, not yours," she rebukes him. "So stand down."

"Understood!"

As the knight sheathes his sword, Altria turns to face her daughter... Mordred. What she's about to say, however, is interrupted by the homunculus's odd stare. Her green orbs, exactly the same as Altria's own, searches her face for something... Altria can't make sure, but at least it's not covered in hostility.

"It's odd..." Mordred murmurs.

"What is?" Altria softly replies, trying to coax some more information from her. She berates herself for still thinking such things, when a normal person should be ecstatic the moment he or she meets a long-lost daughter. Yet, this curse of hers still grabs hold of her feelings, almost on reflex.

"I spend so much time yearning for your love and recognition, and yet... Now, I hate you just as much." Mordred cocks her head slightly to the side, asking, "Is it strange?"

The words are as sharp as swords, as easy piercing a heart as a spear. The pain is there, but blunted by her kingly mask, perhaps to a good effect. She doesn't know if she can bear having this conversation if she lets her heart be ruled by her raging emotion. Yes, it's a good thing her head can analyze the situation calmly, constantly calculating the advantage and disadvantages for any words she can squeeze out in return.

As long as her tongue doesn't fail her like last time, all should be good.

Or is it this attitude which causes Mordred to hate her?

But... her daughter's stare has barely any emotion which can be called 'hate'.

Her eyes are... not staring at Altria. It's looking, delving, scrying deep into her, as if trying to find anything worth salvaging. Mordred's adorably innocent looks reminds her of her pet cub lion at home, judging whether the meat served in front of it suits to its palate or not. It's not a gaze from a homun- no, a person...

It's a predator seeking its prey.

Oddly, her well-honed instincts doesn't react at the threat.

Why? Why is that? Is it because deep down, even if she doesn't want to admit it, the child in front of her is of her own blood? Does all parents feel like this, feel like their lives mean nothing if their child can gain in return? This is all foreign feelings for her... She, who have casted everything aside. Friends, family, dreams, hope, love... How long has it been since she feels like this again?

"Well!" Mordred smiles brightly, straightening up her back. "Now that's done, I'll take my leave, Your Majesty."

She walks past Altria, not hesitating in the slightest.

' _Let her go,'_ her mind says. _'She's just another liability you don't need. Focus on the now. There's an invasion, for God's sake! Just-'_

Altria's hand catches Mordred's, refusing to let go.

"What..."

Mordred utters one word, which everyone else shares in their mind.

It's clear to those present that their relationship is bad, mostly from the homunculus's part. They know enough not to judge people based on first impressions, assuming the King himself has a secret none of them knows, except from his daughter. This supposed 'secret' is a plausible explanation to her antagonistic words and body language, and even if the King wants to reconcile, all of them expects him to do so after the incoming war, not right now.

And yet, he holds her hand tight, stopping her in her tracks.

Judging by the size of his eyes, he's not expecting his actions as well.

"Ah..." Altria tries to say something to justify her actions, but since it's so sudden, her mind is temporarily halted.

In the end, her experience gets her through with only a minimal pause.

"Er, Mordred..." she begins, the name of her daughter still tasting foreign to her tongue. "I will appreciate it if we can... coordinate our actions somewhat. I... request you to stay, at least until the fighting is over."

In return to that bumbling explanation, Mordred narrows her eyes dangerously.

"Is that an order?"

Taken aback by her resistance to authority, Altria nevertheless finds a peaceful solution.

Having composed herself once again, she does the only thing a ruler will not do.

She bows her head.

"Please."

Now, it's Mordred's turn to gasp in surprise, stopping her resistance on the grip on her arm.

"You..."

Altria closes her eyes, blocking out any thoughts of dishonor and disgrace. "If what you said is true, then this Kingdom needs you more now than never before," she explains, with her head still lowered.

"We need you. Please, assist me."

At the humble request, Mordred's resistance crumbles.

"...fine."

She pries Altria's hand from hers, and lifts the King's shoulder so they can speak on eye level.

"However, I have one condition."

"Name it."

Mordred inhales, preparing herself to speak.

"The villagers which just joined your army... I want your guarantee they'll be looked after, when everything's over." Her stare hardens. "I've seen what sacrifices you make, and what you can do. I won't permit any of that, not ever."

Altria weakly nods.

"Granted."

Bedivere steps forward, bowing deeply to his liege with a palm on his heart.

"I'll see to it, Your Majesty."

"I'm grateful for your service."

"Yes!"

Exhaling a breath of relief, Altria addresses all those present.

"Now-"

\- _GGRRRROOOOOWWWWWWWLLLLLLL..._

Everyone's gaze turns towards the sound... at the sheepish-looking young female knight.

Mordred awkwardly smiles.

"Ah-ha-ha-hah... Er, can we have dinner first?"

Cecilia rubs the bridge of her nose, holding back an impending headache.

* * *

"I refuse."

"Miss... whatever-your-name, please understand we are at a state of _war_ ," Tristan sighs. The stubborn magus is more troublesome than he thought, fervently denying a help practically given for free. Sure, he has his own suspicions, but any actions taken against this red-headed man who suddenly showed up can be considered later. Like he said, they're in a pinch, to put it mildly.

"I refuse," the female magus, who still hasn't given her name to all present, steadfastly says.

That said, the moment when Tristan decides to negotiate harder with her, the newcomer comes up to her instead.

He bows deeply, face almost parallel to the ground.

"If I offended you back then, Miss Filvis," the young man humbly says, "I apologize."

His voice sounds sincere enough, at least to the knight's eye. The female magus's name is quite interesting, certainly not from the parts around here, but Merlin has a reputation for quirky decisions. The court magus certainly always has the best interest of the Kingdom in his mind, though, so not many can reliably critize him.

The redhead lifts his head, staring straight into the slit where Filvis's eyes will be, had the veil and hat don't obscure her facial features, leaving it to the men's imaginations. He calmly continues, a small smile on his face. "So, can we-"

\- Slap.

' _Ouch...'_ Tristan groans in his mind.

The smack is so sharp he can feel it hitting his own cheek. Thankfully, it's the newcomer's who received it, so all is well. Her antagonism will shift into him, allowing Tristan and Lamorak to finally get a move on the war meeting. The earlier disagreement for accepting the redhead's help has delayed matters for far too long, and both knights are eager to finalize their plans.

However, the man doesn't so much twitch or wince, simply looking straight with honest eyes.

Those are a good stare. Pure, clean, without any hidden thoughts or malice. Truthfully, if a murderer pleads mercy with such eyes towards Tristan, or even his more temperamental partner, Lamorak, both of them will forgive him without a second thought. Granted, it'll be only after some punishment is served, but he believes such a demeaning slap and cynical behavior from the girl are enough punishment in themselves.

Men are such prideful creatures, after all.

Clearly, she also feels the same way, since her aggresive body language has calmed down significantly. He can almost see her shrinking back in front of such strong gaze, but manages to hold herself together in the end.

"I... will never forgive you," she spits out.

The young man nods. "I agree... Perhaps sticking a blade on your neck and taking you hostage is rude of me, but I wish we can get the occasion behind us."

Her eyes shine with anger.

"You think it's that simple?!" She half-shouts, fist clenched in anger. "You... you've dishonored me! _Sullied_ me! And if you think," she steps forward, a finger jabbing at the air in front of the man's face, "you will receive _any_ sort of tolerance from me, you're sorely mistaken!"

Now, the gazes from the surrounding men turn cold, stabbing at the now supposedly-perverse man.

The young man looks confused for a moment, his eyes glazing over to recall the past. It may look like a responsible behavior, and the girl certainly feels so. Prana starts to swirl around her in great quantity, ready to unleash a lethal blow.

"Ah," he lightly smacks the bottom of his fist into his palm. "My apologies, then. I had forgotten your race forbids contact between foreigners, and I acted rashly." He bows again. "Once more, I apologize. That time, I was agitated by your group, and had to take drastic measures."

"'Your race'?" Tristan asks the young man.

The man makes an 'oops' expression, but points at the masked magus for his answer.

"It seems like I apologize a lot for today, Sir Tristan," he replies, "but that isn't really my right to answer."

Everyone's gazes once again shift to Filvis.

Under the numerous attention, she steps back hurriedly.

"Ah, er..." she mumbles.

Coughing to regain her calm, she declares, "Like Sir Tristan said, it's not the time for this issue. L-Let's get back to the war planning."

None of the onlookers seem eager to let the issue go, but they let it slide. All of them are professional soldiers, even the rest of the magi in Filvis's group, and deeply understand the heavy weight that is war. Every time a group of people raises arms against another, many loss of lives is inevitable. The King's policy to minimize casualties by sacrificing a small tribute is rooted deep inside them, and they have no intention of betraying that ideal.

This war... must be won at all cost.

Tristan shifts, but it's Lamorak who begins to speak.

His gruff voice, suiting his large build, is targeted at the young redhead.

"Why don't we start with an introduction?" He gestures with his thumb to point at the magi huddled at one side of the room. "This bunch I understand, but there's no sense in keeping your anonymity now, no? Since you bothered to show up without those annoying masks, after all."

He smiles politely, before saying, "This one is named Shirou. No family name, since I don't remember having one when I was born."

Lamorak nods in satisfaction. "As long as you cut back on the sarcasm and self-mock, boy, you'll do fine here!" He smacks Tristan's back, meant as a cue for him to get talking, but by momentarily forgetting his own strength, he sends his partner on a coughing fit.

Rather than helping Tristan to his feet, Lamorak guffaws at the knight's misery. Thankfully for the relatively smaller knight, none present has the balls to follow suit with a laughter of their own. Some are noticeably holding back their reactions, but all of them succeeded in containing a chuckle. The magi group's expressions can't be seen, though Shirou sports a small smile of sympathy.

Coughing to clear his lungs, Tristan returns his attention to the large table. Various notes and maps are aligned neatly, though with the limited time they have, the number is a bit on the low side, especially with a confrontation this big. That said, the mood in the camp isn't pessimistic in the slightest.

"As you can see," Tristan starts, "the battlefield will be mostly flatlands. This layout has suited our cavalry's speed in the past, as well as our infantry formation. However, I believe relying on our usual tactics will be dangerous, as those Romans excel in defensive strategies."

He moves several colored pieces across the maps.

"However, their number is small, so our focus should still be on the Saxons. We'll use a hit-and-run tactic to rout their formation, lead by Lamorak."

The larger knight flashes a savage grin, likely impatient to start the battle.

"I'll open the salvo with my cavalry archers unit, followed by Lamorak's infantry group." Tristan glances over to his partner, his gaze already saying things only the two of them understand. The wars have built a sense of brotherhood between the Knights of the Round Table, such that they can communicate with eye contact alone.

"I'll leave the deployment to you," he says. "Don't mess it up."

Lamorak chuckles. "Don't stumble and fall on the first step, either."

Tristan grins at the banter, before continuing, "I'll dispatch a small unit to you, Miss Filvis." Ignoring the glare from the woman for the casual use of her name, Tristan declares, "I'll leave the Romans to you, since your group is the most adaptable between all of us. I believe... 200 soldiers is enough?"

She steps forward, eyes locked onto the archer knight's.

"Keep them."

The bold statement stuns the room, but Tristan is the first to recover.

"If... that's what you want, and you're confident of victory, then so be it," he awkwardly replies. Magi have their own quirks and pride, and if this woman has the balls to say she can take the best unit of the Roman Empire without any reinforcements whatsoever, then he'll waste no time in convincing her otherwise. It'll be a massive headache in the first place, since her stubborn personality has been displayed earlier.

Under that mask, she _has_ to be smiling smugly.

Shaking his head clear of that thought, he turns towards the young man... Shirou, is it?

"Since you look like you wanted to say something, then do it now."

All military men inherently dislikes outsiders messing around with their plans. They're open to suggestions, sure, but they don't make it this far without having superior commanding skills of their own. An outsider who jumps in and meddles needlessly in order to fulfil some shady goals will have the door out shown to them. However, Shirou seems confident, but polite, so Tristan decides to hear him out.

Shirou speaks in a soft tone, unlike the two knights earlier.

"I'll begin by explaining about the person who brought the two armies together."

A gasp resounds inside the tent, but he can't quite catch the person making the sound.

"His name is Galehaut," Shirou explains. "I'm sure some of you already know of him, since he's one of the first who yielded his land and his authority to the King. I don't know why he suddenly decided to revolt like this, but there's one thing I need to tell everyone."

He makes a point to look at all the eyes staring at him, before saying, "He is a demon... literally."

"Lies!" Filvis denies his claim with a shrill voice. "I've met the person myself, and he's nothing of that sort!"

"Demons are more powerful than most of us, Miss Filvis," Shirou patiently answers. "Don't sell yourself short for not being able to see the real him."

"You insolent-!"

"Miss Filvis!" Tristan warns. "Please, allow him to finish."

Her strong glare remains at the redhead for a moment longer, but she backs off in the end.

"I mean no disrespect," the young man bows lightly. "Even I have trouble discerning this information in the first place. And no," he raises one finger, "I won't bother explaining how I got this information. All that's important is how we'll deal with him, since that's a massive boost in firepower on their side."

Lamorak raises his hand somewhat timidly, belying his frame.

"Uh... can anyone explain how strong a demon is? The ones I killed seemed weak, and won't warrant this much caution."

Filvis explains, in what Shirou assumes to be her 'teaching' voice. "The demons we usually encounters are in fact creations of our own subconscious, given form and power. They feed off our darkest wishes and hopes, twisting them to become our worst nightmare. Contrary to 'true' demons, who are more similar to Phantasmal Species, their power is weaker, but far above most magi."

She conjures a seat out of stone to lay down, saying, "Even Master will be hard-pressed to defeat these beings." She turns her gaze towards Shirou, asking cynically, "Anything you'd like to add?"

"No, nothing," he confirms her statement with a smile. "As she said, Galehaut is just _that_ powerful."

"So..." Tristan trails off.

"How can we deal with them?" Lamorak finishes his partner's question.

Shirou shakes his head.

"You misunderstand, Sir Lamorak," he says. "There is no 'we'."

He straightens his back, his eyes solid and firm.

"I'll deal with him."

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **B**

 **Bloighich**

 **A spell used as a brute-force counter to an existing one. It's operative procedure is wedging a dense point of magic energy into a magic array's weak side (not necessarily its precise weak point), similar to a pile bunker punching through a door. Its shoddy roughness, bereft of finesse, complements its user and creator.**


	14. Meetings of Fate

**Hello again, everyone! Thanks for the continuous support!**

 **Speaking of support, a big shout-out to Dragonjek for being an unintentional professional reviewer for my story. I appreciate your chapter-by-chapter review, and unfortunately, like what you mentioned in your last review of the latest chapter, the answers to your unanswered questions will be revealed piece-by-piece with the following installments. Still, I enjoyed your lengthy and constructive reviews, so go ahead and poke holes on this one. I'll use it to improve the next chapters. Thanks a lot!**

 **See, this is the interaction I like with my readers when I write this story. At first, before I set my mind into writing, I'm always afraid of peer reviews, and to be honest, I still kind of am now. But because of all of you beautiful folks, I manage to enjoy being criticized as well (as long as it isn't a flame). Once again, thank you for your continued patronage. I urge you to delve deeper into the plot holes and speculate freely in the review section (sorry I never set up a forum, but we'll see about that).**

 **On a side note, I just recently got into the Soulsverse games by Miyazaki-san. I love his kind of storytelling, although for sure I'll never leave plot holes the size of black holes like he did in his games in my story, so don't worry. Ah, again, I delayed the compilation of glossary in a separate page. Maybe I should make it after this finishes?**

 **By the way, the following chapters will be all-action, so salivate over them in waiting!**

 **Disclaimer: How on earth Nasu is going to put 4, yes, _four_ sex scenes into a three-part movie? Hopefully it won't be dragons and dolphins again... Make me in charge and I'll fulfill all the fans' fantasies!**

* * *

Guinevere's thin hands wrap the railing tightly, to the point of whitening her knuckles.

The guards let her indulge in her nightly habit during Altria's campaigns, partly because they don't dare to disobey the Queen, and partly because they misunderstand her worry. They assume she's waiting on her lover, which they think is the King, and rightly so. But, for those in the know, she's not waiting for Lancelot, either.

Her lustrous brown hair dances in the cold midnight wind, inadvertently sending chills down to her bone. Being the Queen, she has her fair share of harsh conditions, but tonight is especially severe. She knows her body is frailer than most, yet her heart won't let her rest... not until she's finished tormenting herself for her sins.

When she saw Lancelot last time, it was the first time she felt hatred towards him.

It hurts. It hurts far, far more than what she imagined.

The pain ravaged inside her body, making her chest tighten uncomfortably and her head pounding constantly. She had the urge to smash and destroy everything around her, the drive to actually _harm_ a living being, drawing blood from its veins... In just a short space of time, only allowing for a few sentences of sincere confession, she had experience what insanity actually felt like.

And she hated herself for it.

Is this what she has been subjecting her betrothed to for years? Taking Altria's trust and love, then playing with it, twisting the wounds deeper through her back. The Queen suspects her lord has already caught wind of her adultery, though without concrete evidence. Is this how Altria feels? This... this... agony?

No, perhaps the most painful of all is her eyes, when they say their goodbyes before this campaign.

Altria's eyes were clear.

Those green orbs she was so used to seeing during the night, the ones which captivated her during the day, stared at her without any accusation in them at all. There was no anger, no malice, no suspicion... All there was were the same soft look as usual, the same smile as usual, the same touch as usual.

What drove Guinevere mad was the look of _understanding_ in those eyes.

' _I don't blame you.'_

' _It's fine.'_

' _It's my fault, so I understand.'_

' _Please relax.'_

' _I'll save him as well.'_

Those times when she prided herself on her ability to read people felt like a curse instead.

She wants to scream at the night air. Declaring her frustrations to the world. Shouting her curses to the sky. Pleading her wishes to the higher beings, anyone who cares enough to listen.

Before she knows it, the back of her fist is moist with tears.

The realization breaks her inner wall, causing her to kneel, her forehead leaning against the railing. Wet drops roll freely on her cheeks, though her throat is parched, unable to make a sound. Her shoulders trembles heavily, either due to the cold or the mental exertion.

For not the first time in years, she weeps alone.

Why? Why is she the one who always hurt the ones close to her? She drove away Lancelot, she betrayed Altria, she deceived the other Knights of the Round Table and Merlin. She is at fault, the culprit who should be punished for her mistake.

But no one did. No one said a word, no one raised an arm, no one shot nasty glares.

It's maddening.

Her mind is relieved and scared at the same time. Her heart cries and bleeds, but yearns for pain to erase the guilt. Her body is wrecked, spending her days loitering around the palace like some wraiths.

It's maddening.

' _Fuck...'_

* * *

It's maddening...

\- Static.

"Your Highness?!"

A woman's voice snaps her blurred consciousness into clarity.

She turns around, but before she can register the speaker's face, two pairs of slender arms wrap under her armpits, strongly hoisting her back to her feet. Her head feels a little light after kneeling for so long, but her legs find purchase on the cold stone ground just fine. The scent of lavender enters her nose from the woman's hair, and she instinctively recognizes this person.

Feeling groggy, she manages to respond to the worrying voice nonetheless.

"No... Vivian, I'm fine. Don't worry."

"Please stop lying, Your Highness," Vivian says wearily. "You won't fool even a single chambermaid, much less I."

Guinevere weakly smiles, leaning her body towards the magus for support. Contrary to her slim appearance, Vivian is surprisingly sturdy, and drags the Queen towards her bed gently. With a huff, she plops her upper body down into the soft mattress, absently staring at the ceiling.

Vivian still looks at her with worry. "Do you need anything else, Your Highness?"

She asks the question also partly due to her position. As a junior magus, and Merlin's student, the hierarchy in the room is clear. She has no rights to pry into the Queen's secrets or her worries, unless Guinevere deliberately shares it with her. That said, she's also not the type to butt her nose into other people's problems, and she doesn't care less of anything which doesn't immediately affect her or the Kingdom. Granted, Guinevere's worries should be quite a severe reason, yet like previously stated, it's up to the Queen herself, not Vivian.

Guinevere wordlessly shakes her head, so the purple-haired woman excuses herself from the room.

As soon as she closes the door and signals the maids to give Her Highness some time alone, she heads to one of the tower's roof.

Camelot, like many other fortifications, possesses several flat towers at the roof for weapons installation. The designs popular in the fairy tales, with sharp pointy roof and hidden cellars, have been made obsolete in the warring times. For that purpose, it cannot be made too high, since the effort to move the weapons down and up for maintenance and shift change will be arduous.

However, the stone construction feels constraining for Vivian inside.

She makes her way to the highest one she can find, inhaling a big gulp of nature once she steps out in the open. Unlike normal humans, she loves being in nature's embrace, whether it's a nice, mild weather or extreme condition. Maybe it's her teacher's influence, or maybe it's just in her blood, but being cooped up in a man-made building with little windows and heavy reliance on artificial lighting never suits her.

A small headache has been pounding her temples since a few nights ago, limiting her ability to sleep. Thankfully, a dose of the cold night air temporarily refreshes her nasal cavities, sending pleasurable sensations to her brain. Her skin shrugs off the bone-chilling cold that even the guards are struggling with their thick clothes, and yet all she's wearing is a thin, long sleeping gown made especially for comfort, not wind protection.

She's annoyed at her master's and the King's decision to station her here, in the guise of assisting Bagdemagus with temporary rule. From what she can glimpse from their conversation, it seems the entire Camelot is being used as bait, in order to bring out more usurpers and traitors. In the last year, there has been odd cases occuring in the Kingdom which gave the King cause for concern, so this step is taken as a precautionary measure.

She has no misgivings regarding the elder knight's ability to hold the area, but it doesn't mean she has to like her role.

' _What was Merlin thinking?!'_

When he gets back, she'll ban him from having sex for an entire year as punishment. Definitely.

She is a magus. A magus, inherently, is driven by curiosity and desire to improve. She was grateful for Merlin for picking her up from the rubbles of her hometown, teaching her the ways of Magecraft, and receiving his care and love, but the same knowledge tempered into her mind is driving her crazy right now. She won't be learning new things, she won't be seeing new places, she won't be discovering new techniques if she's holed up in this place!

Okay, deep breaths, deep breaths.

At least the view at night, from this height, is pleasing to the eyes.

The new moon sheds no light onto the lands, but her eyes can still catch the nocturnal scenery with the aid of a little Reinforcement. The light from the stars is enough for her, bathing the lands with their various glows, some amber, some cyan, some white, some gold, glittering nature with their gifts. As the daywalkers sleep, the night predators awake, moving silently for prey in the shadows. She catches several streaks of silver flitting in and out of view, a sign of the local wolf pack going out for a meal. Behind them, one of the younger gamekeepers stealthily follows their lead, hoping to land a big catch.

"I should join them..." she mutters in a low voice.

She licks her lips seductively.

Anyone looking at her will instinctively steps back in fear, for her eyes are glinting with a dangerous, hungry glare, focused on nothing else but her next kill.

* * *

"Kill..."

It starts as a whisper inside his head.

Seconds tick by, and the whisper doesn't stop. Slowly, gingerly, it fills the inside of his ear, brething sweet poisonous words right into his brain. Like a hunch a person can never get rid off, or a bug which consistently follow someone around, it lingers, deep, cloying, and dark.

\- Kill. Kill. Kill.

At night, during his sleep, the whisper turns into a manic chant. The words fills his heart, covering it in their darkness, dragging his soul down to the point of no return. The suggestion worms itself, like a parasite which stabs deep into a blood vessel, deep down into his conciousness, altering it, shaping it into something else entirely.

\- Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill! Kill! Kill!

He feels it, yet he can't feel it. His blackened soul drinks the curse as if it's a sweet nectar, devouring it to grow ever stronger. The cracks in his heart is mended, filled with this evil tar to restore its full working order, changing the structure little by little. Before he knows it, he has turned into something which isn't him, and yet still him.

He accepts it nonetheless.

\- Kill! Kill! Kill! _Kill! Kill! Kill!_ **Kill! Kill! Kill!**

If not, how can he achieve his goals? How can he achieve his dreams? Those wishes which have been cruelly taken away from him, by the people he considered closest, is now in the palm of his hands. So, anything which gets in his way will be eliminated. Nothing else will stop him-

\- Static- _KILL_ -Static

-to reach out and grasp it with his own two hands. He'll allow nothing to block him anymore, not his feelings, not his friends, not his lovers, nothing. Everything is simply fodder. Everything can be sacrificed. As long as he gets-

\- Static- _KILL_ -Static- _KILL-_ Static

-gets his revenge, then everything is permitted.

A sudden headache assaults his head, but the sturdiness of his newly-constructed armor proves sufficient to lean on. His body movements, still as smooth and precise as before, never stops walking forward. His comrades are beside him...

No, not comrades. These barbarians are useful for their muscle, but after that, when he takes it all...

Well, he'll introduce them to his own despair.

Ah, it seems they know their place. They're all marching to the same spot, right after dawn, but everyone makes it clear they won't get in his way, since these blue-painted animals shift outwards to make an empty circle around him. Good, good. Some respect is overdue around here.

A black mist rises in accordance to his breaths, with short, black chains with hooks on the end slithers in the air, defying gravity.

' _Damn, this armor is great...'_ he praises in his head.

The moment he woke up, this set of armor is already placed neatly beside his sleeping spot. It's strange, in a sense, for him to wake up that early, much earlier then the rest of the army. They're professional soldiers, just like him, and no stranger to a blasted sleeping schedule, but waking up refreshed just after an hour of sleep, right after a long march, was incredibly odd. Did the elder magus cast a rejuvenating spell on all the soldiers? If that's so, why was he the only one who woke up?

The armor is splendidly made. Pitch black, as if trying to swallow all light which bounces off it, it's crafted precisely to his measurements. Many soldiers never even worn a full-suit of armor, because it has to be hand-crafted to the wearer's specification, and also the cost is astronomical. Someone who made this has intimate knowledge of him and his personal belongings, but the suspicion slipped through his mind the moment he laid his eyes on it.

It shines with the luster of pure obsidian, it emits it's own glow, rather than reflecting any light from an outside source. Red lines mark its otherwise unblemished surface, giving the impression of blood vessels running through the metallic body. The helmet is angular, with only a horizontal slit running across for his eyes, but the supposedly empty slot is covered by a thin, dark red glass. The rest of the armor, from the breastplate all the way down to the boots, forms jagged edges on the exterior in the picture of a demonic sculpture, while smoothly and precisely joined up on the interior.

It's like a second skin made especially for him.

It's fantastically light, which threw him off the first time, but now it feels as if he's wearing normal clothes instead of the heavy, clunky armor people are seeing him wear. Movements aren't constrained in the slightest, allowing full rotation on all limbs and his wrist and neck. Somehow, the glow of the red lines matches the markings on Arondight, beating together in concert with his heart. The fact simply makes him feel even more alive, rather than disturbed how such a perfect set of armor just magically made its way to his side.

' _It must be fate,'_ he dismisses his own concern. _'If it's not, then... damn, my luck is good.'_

With the armor donned, the incessant whispering and chanting at the back of his mind disappears, melding into his own thoughts and emotions. The red glass covering proves to be of no hindrance at all; in fact, it provides him with numbers and markers to ease his decision making. He expects for his vision to be dyed in red, but the view outside is very clear, though a bit limited because of the size of the helmet opening.

If a scout from the opposing army views the condition from above, he'll instantly assume the Picts are escorting a madman, or a monster. A sizeable empty circle is formed out of the Picts who won't approach the moving mass of black metal, as if they're afraid to be touched and cursed upon contact. The black mist covering the being also enhances the effect, spreading fear and anxiety across the ranks.

Oh, how close to the truth he is, he'll never know. But he knows of one fact.

This... _beast_... is coming to slaughter them all.

He hurriedly logs the information to the portable managraph, alerting the main force of its arrival.

* * *

"How's the area looking?"

"Relative to our terms, or theirs, Sir?"

"Don't get smart with me, legion!"

A row of laughter fills the strategy room, as Justin smacks one of his aides upside the head.

The legion simply snarks back, "Well, if our esteemed Commander managed to negotiate more troops for us, then this might turn out to be _not_ a suicide mission!"

His vice commander claps his hand to gather everyone's attention, before saying, "Right, right. Now, if you imbeciles has enough, can we focus on the matters at hand? We're at a _war_ here, gentlemen, if your pea-sized brain can remember."

Despite the verbal jab, none of them decides they're brave enough to argue back, and henceforth, their faces turn serious. Unfortunately, due to their... _unique_ partnership agreements with these Saxons, their table has been 'accidentally' lost in transport, and since the only table big enough to use in the strategy room is inside the Saxons' main tent, this group gets the short end of the straw. Fortunately, they're all used to sitting on the ground for group meetings, so the situation is a mere annoyance rather than a full-blown hindrance.

They might've had to kill those bastards later, but this'll do.

The legion steps up with information from his scouting group.

"To be honest, it's not looking good for us," he starts, causing some eyebrows to be furrowed. "From what we knew in previous engagements, the Britons' cavalry is top class, and this plains should suit them. Their numbers aren't that big, so that's a plus for us."

He circles a few parts of the large map with a chalk, marking the relative positions of all troops.

"The Saxons seem keen on full-frontal engagement, and has requested for us to do the guerilla warfare at the back as well. If we utilize the slope," he traces a line alongside the beach and to the marshlands, "theoretically, our speed and small number should be able to flank them come the day we fight."

Justin nods with his lanky head.

"It's not a bad idea." He turns towards his vice-commander. "And the rest of the Brit's troops? How's that looking?"

The addressee shakes his head. "Again, we're getting some bad info here. Their infantry is little, but the cavalry should be able to make things even in a full-blown assault. What I'm worried about is the rumors of the support troops; I heard there's some seriously powerful magi scattered around as individual battalions' support."

"Damn..." Justin sighs.

He massages his temples, before saying, "All right, this plan should do for now. I'll brief you when I come up with something better."

Waving his arms, he declares, "Meeting dismissed."

His men orderly gathers their stuff and shuffles out of the entrance flap. The vice-commander momentarily looks back in worry, but knowing his leader, he'll want some time alone to think, so he follows the steady stream of men outside to do their chores. The deadline for the battle is near, perhaps as soon as tomorrow, but Justin will pull through. Not a single one of them has their doubts on that idea.

The thin commander is left alone in the tent, musing his troops' woeful deployment.

The 'glorious' Roman Empire, as those old seniles in the senate often loudly proclaim, is at its peak, or near enough to it. The area they control may not very large, but those they do are very-well managed, creating a strong network of civilization bastions across the continent. Being a business-minded ruler, the Emperor has decided to reach out to other small kingdoms to establish a trade route along the more difficult paths, rather than an all-out, expensive campaigns.

The Saxons is one of such 'targeted' groups. As one of the deals, the sea-faring kingdom is trying to expand its influence westward from the northern cliffs of the continent: to Britannia. The deal is for an increased flow of marine-based products from the colder, richer, and fatter ocean up north. The seafood down in the Mediterranea is good, but Justin has personally tasted the fully-matured salmon from that region, and the image of the juicy, fatty orange flesh brings drool to his mouth every time he's reminded of it.

All in all, he has no qualms in the return deal: assist the Saxons to defeat the up-and-coming king, Arthur Pendragon, and seize the marine trade routes. If he can bring prosperity to his beloved Empire, and benefits from that in return, he has no problems at all. Plus, a well-fed army is a happy army, and a happy army is a strong army.

What he's most concerned about is the manner they were deployed.

As the Excubitors, their main duty is to safeguard the Emperor and other high-value members of the Empire, being the official Imperial Guards. They received only the best education, the best training, and the best equipments using almost a quarter of the entire military budget, in order to bring 'glory and safety' to the residents, and most importantly, the Emperor. There have been cases in the past with his predecessor where they were sent for a military campaign, but that's during a period of instability, where a hesitation in troop deployment could mean the downfall of the entire Empire. If the Emperor was killed in such situation, but the Empire was still standing strong, they could always rebuilt. That's the thinking behind the previous deployments.

Now, in this period of relatively peaceful expansion, only 200 of them were sent to this foreign rock in the northern seas.

He understands the senate's decision, he really does. A period of peace is actually the most dangerous, when a friend today can stab your heart in the back tomorrow. Keeping nearly the full force of the Excubitors around the capital and the biggest states is necessary as a show of force, and as a result, the ones who're sent over on expeditions like these tend to suffer a setback in support.

Just in troops number alone, they're at a disadvantage.

He has confidence in his men, especially since he's granted the authority to handpick the members of this force. Against another army, they probably could've won with a hit-and-run tactic, even without the presence of another army helping them. The Saxons are also a formidable ally to have, and although their land-based troops are inferior to his, or even Pendragon's, it's still a solid few thousand men.

So, why is it he feels so insecure?

Other than their extremely small numbers, it's the 'sponsor' which backs this trip, and who managed to have them transported all the way up north to rendevous with the Saxons army before their fateful voyage.

' _I mean, I don't look like much of a soldier, but he doesn't look like a businessman even more...'_

Compared to his men, Justin can be considered on the thin side. His posture isn't intimidating or impressive in any way, and can even be called 'frail'. Of course, he's not weak in any way, and anyone who's seen him naked can attest to those incredibly dense muscles do make a scary sight. He's the best swordsman and spearman in the Excubitors, which is why he made captain just two years into his service. His rectangular face is marred with a stubble here and there, and his blond hair has started to thin over the years. Thankfully, his fitness doesn't drop one bit, or he'll push for retirement already in a remote and scenic holiday villa with his wife and children.

The said 'sponsor', meanwhile, is an enigma.

The man was utterly unremarkable in appearance. When Justin saw him the first time, it was during a scheduled patrol of the capital, where he saw him talking with a few of the younger senators. It's not an odd sight in itself, since there's countless merchants and other money-loving crooks who always try daily to get themselves closer to those in power.

What piqued his alert was the moment he couldn't remember the guy's face.

No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't do it. He prided himself in his observation skills, and he could tell the weather that day, what the senators were snacking on during their walk, what color toga the men were wearing, and the route they took. However, every single time he tried to recall that specific piece of information, it was as if the picture was clouded by a thick mist, one he couldn't breach no matter how hard he ran. It's like something was actually preventing his brain to _think_ on that subject, which usually meant a spell was at work.

It should be fine and dandy for any other man, but as the leader of the Excubitors, his gears were all engraved with the most powerful anti-Magecraft measures the court shamans could muster. The fact he couldn't penetrate a simple memory-cloaking spell hinted at the sponsor's power, and a power he couldn't understand was a power he considered dangerous.

Even after that moment, he saw the person a few more times hanging around the palace complex. Eventually, he resorted to drawing the man's the last time he encountered him, but his picture mysteriously combusted in his house later that night, nearly burning his home down.

The Emperor dismissed his concerns, and ordered him to follow the man's strange instructions. Well, it proved out well so far, having teleported this far out. The man hadn't dropped them in the ocean, or tore apart their bodies, or worse, did anything in the capital during this tour. That said, his trust is expensive to earn, and the man still hasn't done so.

After their landing, he pestered the man for more information as discreetly and politely as possible. With some civility, he finally managed to fork out an identity for this person, and a face to connect with the man's name.

Galehaut.

Being in service near the capital for quite some time before this has dulled his perception regarding foreign matters somewhat, but the name did ring a bell in his head. Arthur Pendragon made his name by monumentally pulling an upset victory over the elder, much more established warlord called Galehaut. What really made the Emperor took notice of the battle was the result: complete surrender. Justin knew how hard it was first-hand to coax or force the enemy to do so, and he had a grudging respect to the young king after hearing that fact.

Yet, after the supposedly defeated warlord introduced himself to the commander, and lifted the unknown spell covering his identity, the face he revealed was unbelievably young. The fair and smooth complexion clearly belonged to a teenager's face, and the short, yet voluminous brown hair adorned the man's head stylishly. To be honest, he looked even younger than Justin's own son.

A suspicion of 'Galehaut' being a fake name and identity sprung into his mind back then, but knowing the magi and shamans he had met before, altering one's appearance was a piece of cake. The strength and pressure he felt from the... _boy_ was the real deal, and by process of inductive reasoning, someone who could out-muscle his armor's enchantments would've perfected his craft for decades, if not centuries. His admiration of the young Briton king rose even higher, able to make this being bent his knees.

Just in time, as if his thoughts are what caused it, the tent's flap opens, revealing the youthful grace of Galehaut.

A cold bead of sweat uncontrollably rolls down the nape of Justin neck.

"May I help you?" Justin nervously asks from behind the desk, though he manages to conceal his anxiety well.

The boy looks around absentmindedly at first, before nonchalantly walks up and pours his attention on the maps which still hasn't been arranged back yet. The arrogant behavior will definitely incur the wrath of many military commander, but Justin is experienced enough to ignore it. After a while, the boy looks up and stares at Justin, his eyes telling the commander something he can't quite grasp.

"Er... Mister?" Justin lets out a weak response uncharateristic for a man in his position, but he's so utterly confused he can't think of anything else to say. "Again, what do you need from me?"

The boy smiles, a hint of pity flashing across his face.

"Ah, I just need a small deviation in your battle plans," he calmly replies.

Justin snaps out of his weaker moment at that incredibly sudden suggestion. Maneuvering an army is already a massive logistical and tactical exercise, and yet this boy, powerful as he is, wants to change things for tha battle which can happen as soon as tomorrow?! He feels his fist hit the table, not as hard as he wanted, but enough to put the point across.

"Mister Galehaut, please listen," Justin growls in a low tone. "I respect your decision to assist us in this operation. And if I'm right, I'm sure you're more experienced than me." He leans closer, close enough to headbutt Galehaut with a small shift. "If so, I don't understand this _stupid_ and _impulsive_ decision of yours. Please, enlighten me."

"No, no, it's not that big of a change as you fear," the boy lightheartedly waves the question away. "I simply want you to steer clear of the plains on the north side, near the coast. That's all." He points at various points on the map, emphasizing his point. "From what I can tell, the Saxons aren't even planning to spread that far, right? So, I assume it'll be no problem to you. I've cleared the issue with them, by the way."

"So you're here just as a messenger," Justin says as he folds his arm. "Why the bother?"

Once more, the youth simply smiles. "Because you're worth more than all those Saxon generals, and an asset I promised Anastasius I'll bring you back alive."

"Alive?" The Roman general cocks an eyebrow. "How pessimistic of you."

Galehaut chuckles while shaking his head. "No, no, you misunderstand again. I'm not worrying of your death against the Britons."

Uncaring of manners, he starts to make his way to the exit. As he walks, he says cryptically, "I will have a personal duel, alongside the war. I simply do not wish for you to perish as a collateral."

Before his hand touches the tent flap, however, a question from Justin halts him.

"If I may ask, who is this person you're so wary of?"

Galehaut looks back, and smiles with the exuberance of youth.

"A Heroic Vessel."

* * *

Nimue has to admit, it's a good plan.

'Divide and conquer' becomes so popular after its invention simply because it's so effective. Rather than concentrating one's force at a specific point, spreading capable hands across multiple battlefields yields more efficient formations. Of course, it depends heavily on the strength of each individual units, or the delicately planned front will collapse like a house of cards if met by a sufficiently strong force.

Even if she attacks from two fronts, taking advantage of those two noble-hearted fools, SHIROU can simply ask his two female students to cover the places he can't reach. He may be more powerful than her, but not even he can be at two places in the same time. Just by the addition of either group to Altria Pendragon's forces will increase their winning chances greatly, given that all three of said people has grown in power far beyond her expectations.

That's why... she has to split her forces as well. Her sister's pesky disturbances have been dealt with, buying her some time to execute and deploy her third front.

Thankfully, her giant scheme of pitting three four armies against each other is so grand all of the involved parties' eyes are all but blinded by it. The Britons, the Picts, the Saxons, the Romans, a Heroic Vessel, a dragon descendant, and a demon... all of their activities fill her palms to the point of bursting, but they're still on her palms nonetheless. These desperate wars will inevitably create holes in the defensive net Altria and that magus Merlin has created, and she's not one to let an opportunity like that go away.

Sadly, it seems this flesh body of hers has become somewhat of a target, even if SHIROU never spilled her true identity. The Camelot court has more talented people than she thought, and some of them must've been able to piece together the clues and pinpoint her involvement. Now, the area of Corbenic is closely watched and guarded, making political moves difficult to do. There are ways around it, but none which allows her to slip away unnoticed.

Well, since this identity has become a burden, it's about time to dispose of it.

She can move far more freely without being constrained by it in the first place. Sure, some heavily guarded areas in the Outside of the World is beyond her ability to sneak through, for example, SHIROU's and Merlin's Workshops, but any mortal defenses, no matter how meticulously constructed, will be no match for her. Additionally, with the big players now away to the battlefield, brute force has become an available option for her. It's not as if they can kill her if they catch her.

All she has to do is acquire a key to that house of cards to send it tumbling down.

Having watched human interaction for centuries, she knows how social networks are all formed around certain people. Someone with the personality and charisma to attract others, no matter the station or power. Someone with the kindness of heart and open of mind to maintain and nurture the relationships between his or her acquaintances. Someone who has become important enough, they can't function socially without this person.

They has left this piece completely unguarded.

' _Checkmate.'_


	15. Rush

**Hey, guys, it's me again! Thank you for the support and reviews for the latest chapter, and the series in general! As always, you all are the reason why I did this, so keep up the good job and review this one as well!**

 **Now, there's some reviews who're _thirsting_ for some Shirou X Mordred action. I admit, I'm at fault for putting those two on the Character Tags and not acting on them. However, this story, and this universe in particular, doesn't only concern the two of them, but the people around them as well, and that's what I want to convey in this story. Yes, they're still the main characters, and the story revolves around them, but also around their actions and how they affect the people they associate with. Also, I want to promote the theme of 'Independence' with this story, whether it's from fate, bloodlines, or social rules and many other stuff, hence the very brief moments between the two of them before separating again. Mordred isn't some baby that needs to be watched all the time, and Shirou has many things to do which he does better alone, so that's that. **

**By the way, what's your favorite battle BGM/song? That one tune that when you hear it, you can't help but imagine an epic duel? Post your suggestion in the comments box below! I'd really appreciate the suggestions.**

 **Enjoy the story!**

 **Disclaimer: If I had Nasu's money, I'd force those guys at Forza to make me one of their cars.**

* * *

The silence between actions always echoes the loudest.

Maybe it's just a figment of the imagination, or the heightened five senses responding to the tense atmosphere, or simply the hammering of one's heartbeat ringing inside his or her ears. Either way, this time is always filled with restlessness, no matter how confident the army commander and the soldiers are. Some just hide it better than others, projecting an image of integrity.

That said, being not human, Mordred rarely experiences these feelings. However, her wild instincts has warned her of the approaching person. The footsteps are light but firm, filled with resolve. It's these sorts of stride which usually causes headaches for her, because she's not really the type to debate and argue about intangible objects. She's fascinated by Shirou's stories and experiences, sure, and not just the fighting part; the negotiations are often half the fun. But that doesn't mean she's comofrtable in such situations, far from it.

She turns around, and the exact same face as hers fills her vision.

"Father," she greets cheerfully. "What do you need?"

Altria's face warps in surprise at the friendly greeting, but turns serious quickly. She takes a deep breath for the next words she's about to say, since she rarely, if ever, used these words. Calmly, she takes a seat opposite her daughter in the extra tent she grant Mordred. This conversation will be far shorter than she likes, since they have to move out soon.

Hopefully, Mordred can sense her sincerity and accepts it.

"I... want to apologize," Altria begins, her head bowed lightly.

Mordred quips, "What for?"

"P-Pardon?" Altria sits dumbfounded.

"What do you want to apologize for?" She tilts her head innocently. "The fact you condemn my birth? The plans you made to eliminate me and Mother? How you desire to keep me the furthest from the throne? Or is it something else?" She gestures with her palm for Altria to answer. "Please, answer truthfully. I'll hear you out."

The contrast between the innocent face and the barbed words stabs at Altria's heart with every sentence, making her tongue numb to response.

"Ah... Mordred, that's all..." She sputters some answers, clearly still searching for them inside her head.

Mordred smiles angelically.

"Father, you don't know what you're talking about, so just shut up."

Having no response to the order, Altria quiets down in a manner completely unsuited for a king. The words may be harsh and rude, but they're painfully honest, and to be fair, she _is_ Altria's daughter, after all. At the very least, she can humor Mordred for a selfish request or two.

Seeing Altria's spirit deflate, Mordred scratches her cheek in embarrassment.

"Ah, no... I didn't mean it to be that rude, honest," she chuckles awkwardly. "You're still my father, and I'm not that depraved to disrespect that."

Altria shakes her head. "No, I deserve that put down. I haven't been on your side in the moments you need the most, so I am at fault."

"That's the problem," Mordred agrees. "About... about what I said, don't bother asking me how I know them."

Altria makes a pained face, and nods in agreement.

The homunculus waves her hand around. "It's not as if I don't understand your decision. Mother... wasn't the noblest of souls, as we know. Heck, if I was in your stead, I'll probably do the same thing, if I didn't meet my master."

"This 'master'," the King inquires, "is he the one who raised you?"

"Yeah!" Mordred enthusiastically answers, eager to showcase Shirou's good points. "Shirou is amazing! I mean, when he picked me up, he-"

Altria smiles softly as her daughter breaks into an animated explanation. Her previously neutral face lits up in excitement, her admiration for the man Altria never met clear to see. Those green orbs, so similar to her own, shines with light she never sees in the mirror, dancing merrily with her explanation, full of love and affection...

Two of the things Altria hasn't received yet from her...

A pang of jealousy echoes inside her heart.

"-so, to conclude, I'm grateful it's him, not you who raised me. No regrets," she nods sagely, fully convinced of her opinion.

"Listening to that, I am inclined to agree," Altria replies. "Not once in my life I have the experience of raising someone... Well, I do own a pet lion, but that is missing the point, no?"

Both of them share a hearty laugh, with Mordred half-pouting for being compared to a cub.

Soon, however, Mordred's laughter dries up, replaced by a sharp glint in her eyes.

"Father," she says cautiously, "those villagers I marched to your camp... How are they now?"

Altria looks genuinely confused.

"They're... safe, of course. I've set a small group to escort them to a nearby village so they can get settled in temporarily." She stares at her daughter curiously, saying, "What brings this subject up?"

"Many things, really," Mordred airily replies. "Mostly your reputation regarding destroyed villages, but it seems I'm worried about nothing in particular."

Altria sighs. "Mordred, those actions were-"

"Necessary, I know," Mordred cuts rudely. "It doesn't mean I have to stomach it in the slightest."

"You are young, and _very_ inexperienced, if I may add," the King answers, a bit heated. "If you had dealt with my problems, perhaps you will have a change in outlook. It weighs on me, of course, but that is the responsibility of a ruler: to make the hard choices when no one," Altria shoots a small glare towards Mordred, "dares to and only speaks of lofty idealism."

"To me, that's the _easy_ way out, Father, not the other way around," Mordred argues.

She clenches her fist multiple times, before saying with her head staring at the ceiling, "If all you ask is for me to see them... your experiences, that is... I've _seen_ them. Very clear... perhaps _too_ clearly."

"How..."

Mordred ignores the dumbfounded Altria, and continues.

"Which is why my words hold weight, no matter what you say." She lowers her head at eye-level with Altria, saying, "Because everything I went through... all the pain I;ve suffered, the sacrifice I've made, the people I let go... all of it, just for this power to save everyone without leaving anyone behind."

"Who showed you this?!" Altria shoots back, her tone rising unconsciously.

"It doesn't matter who!" Mordred answers. "All I care about that it's the truth. Those people you gave away as tribute to your victory, those women and children forsaken, abandoned, _burnt_ away by your blazing path to glory... I'm sick of it!"

Her tone lowers to a chilling degree.

"Those are the main reasons why I hate you the most."

Even with all her self control, those words hurt Altria nonetheless. However, she is still a King, and being insulted that much, even if she somewhat deserves it deep down, there's no way she's going to let Mordred slide without at least a reprimand. Her daughter's words strike true like Tristan's arrow, and despite how she prefers it to be otherwise, they open old wounds which never healed in the first place.

"So what do you suggest? Dragging them along with my army, with the enemies hot on our trail and with full supplies?" Altria's jade eyes narrow. Her tone is still softer than usual, but the underlying message is clear. "Helping those villagers to our military's supplies, and reducing our fighting force just to guard them around? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yes."

"Tha's foolish and naive," Altria argues. "I expected more from you."

"You do that to _everyone_ , Father, but it still doesn't make it right," Mordred snaps back. "You can call me all you want, but that method is still feasible had you were stronger."

" _I'm not!"_

Altira's sudden outburst surprised herself, but instead of stopping and apologizing, she chooses to mount the momentum and counterattack.

" _You_ were not there. _You_ were not leading them. _You_ did not make the choices. Why is that? It's only because you are here, where all you can do is mouth people off." Altria leans forward menacingly, not backing down in the slightest. "You may be strong, but that strength means nothing in the battlefield! You may be courageous, but that courage means nothing when you have your own people to protect! Those peaceful _delusions_ of yours..."

She growls, "They will drown you eventually and let you die."

"I don't care."

The simple reply stuns the King, giving Mordred the time to slip in her reply.

"I've seen it... The mountains of corpses, the rivers of bloods, the choir of laments of the dead, the fog of rotting meat's stench..." Mordred instinctively shudders as she relived a certain piece of memory. "And on top of them, were the two of us, skewering each other."

Before Altria can interrupt her, she continues unabated. "To take it back to your words, Father, _you_ weren't there alongside me as I was shown."

The squeak of stretched leather sounds clear across the tent as the homunculus clenches her fist so tight it almost tears her gloves off.

"I won't let that happen. _Ever_."

The fire in her eyes makes Altria mentally stumble back.

"Yeah, I got to admit, if you look at it your way, my desires may seems childish and impossible to achieve. 'Foolish and naive', if I recall you said? That's fine."

She stands up resolutely, declaring to the world, "Because I'll chase after them nonetheless. Those impossible dreams... that's exactly why they're worth chasing, no?"

Before Altria can react, the tip of Clarent has already kissed the base of her throat.

"Those people you've abandoned... I'll save them in return. The places you've doomed to destruction, I'll rebuild. The lives you've forsaken, I'll give them a place to bloom once more. So, hear my words carefully, _Father_."

The words of power echoes throughout the World.

"Your way of ruling..." Mordred announces, "I reject it."

* * *

I've always hated war.

The hustle and bustle of metal-clad men, the shrieks and laments of the women and children, the scent of maintenance oil, the irresistible tension hanging in the air... These sensations always makes my skin crawl, no matter how used I am to them. I recognize the human need for chaos and conflict, but is it truly necessary? The dream of utopia which Mordred and I shared... is it too far-fetched?

Never mind. I've long since stopped questioning my ideals, because the fact it is impossible to grasp makes it worthwhile to chase after. Some say I'm too selfless to want salvation for everyone, but I always think the opposite: it is only my selfish greed to save people which has gotten me this far.

As I reminisce, soft footsteps creep behind me, although Filvis's magic energy is much too strong to allow complete stealth. I should teach her about the trick one of my junior Heroic Vessel uses...

Then again, she'll just rebuke me like always, so I won't.

As I watch the tense ranks of men prepare for their charge, the half-elf speaks without so much as a greeting first.

"Don't fail."

"Thank you for the encouragement."

She scoffs. "Is that what your deranged mind thinks? Then you are more of a fool than I thought."

Ignoring the scathing comments, I reply with a smile, facing her slightly. "Regardless of that, it doesn't change the fact you 'wish' for something from me, no? I think it counts as an encouragement."

"D-Don't misunderstand!" She stomps her foot childishly, saying, "If you fail, then we will lose! I only want to prevent that, that's all!"

"Yes, yes."

"Listen to me when I'm talking!"

Again, I ignore her useless shriek, noting, "Those priests they've brought along seems to be of some quality. Are you sure you don't need reinforcements?"

She narrows her eyes, before replying, "If I need one, I shall ask Sir Tristan, not you."

Sighing, I step closer to her, staring at her right between her eyes. "Miss Filvis, is there any chance for you to forgive me? It's not my intention to reveal your ancestry, honest."

Of course, that's a lie. In the previous debate, I needed something to change the momentum, and she happened to be right there. Originally, if she wasn't so antagonistic against my plans, I'd leave her alone, but it turned out the strategy meeting required me to play one of my cards. It's better than nothing, though; I can handle dogeza for quite a few days, anyway.

"No."

"Then, I shall apologize once more."

I start to bow, but I cancel the movement as her palm swings to where my head will be, leaving her to hit nothing but empty air.

The look of surprise is no longer in her face, since she has failed to hit me even once during our time together after the first time. Instead, the look of contempt is still there, which is completely understandable from my perspective. It's a risk I can live with, and what matters currently won't be affected in any way. I know she's a professional, and her feelings won't cloud her judgment in battle even in the slightest. She's confident, and rightfully so.

"Why won't you stay where you are?!" She scowls.

"You're not going to accept my apology anyway, so I'll pass on that."

A mass of yells from the soldiers catch our attention, and we both simultaneously decide to stop our little insignificant banter.

We both make our way to our designated starting position, but Filvis interjects before we arrive there.

"For your personal note, I do not trust you."

"That's fine," I reply. "I don't need your trust, only your cooperation."

She looks puzzled, asking, "Why is that?"

Her question befuddles me instead, leading me to ask back, "Why what?"

She sternly explains, "You showed up out of thin air, coming to a camp which contains at least one person who is hostile to you, and offered your help and assistance without asking for recompense. You said you wish to reduce casualties, and yet you designated yourself only to take on one single person. These qualities are perhaps only unique to you, and I want to know why."

' _She's a magus through-and-through, isn't she?'_

"If I say I just want to save everyone, will you believe it?"

"Of course not."

"Well, that's all there is to it, really," I chuckle, scratching the back of my head. "I'm just that kind of person."

"How selfless and noble of you," she sarcastically retorts.

I shake my head. "It's the opposite, I think."

"Of course."

She speeds up her pace, overtaking me to lead the way.

Turning her head slightly, she says, "Any hidden thoughts, secret plans, evil acts from you... I shall definitely uncover it for the world to see. Do not think this is myself letting you go unnoticed."

After giving me that warning, she trots away, exiting my normal field of vision.

"Jeez," I sigh. "What a difficult woman..."

That said, it may be my fault in a sense.

* * *

Adjusting her armor with a grunt, Cecilia reaches for her new sword.

Every single piece of her equipment is new, as a sort of graduation gift from Grandmaster Shirou. Clearly, it is leagues better than her old one... if she has an 'old one' in the first place. This year, she's been practically going naked into battles, only equipped with a rudimentary leather gloves and heart guard under her clothes. It's a miracle she hasn't died yet, if she thinks back.

She ignores the gazes from the curious and lecherous men around her, and focused on maintaining her tools. Really, it's as if these folks have never seen a girl before. Come on, they must have a life back where they came from...

Right?

' _If not, then I'm in trouble...'_

Of course, she has no right to stay in the same tent as the commanders, namely His Majesty and some of the Knights of the Round Table. Master Mordred orders her to bunk with her, to avoid any further issues like the one they've encountered before, but the barrack is the place where they, the infantry, prepares, so she ahs no choice. It's a good thing the unsavory gazes numbers few, or she'll have to beat some sense into them.

What gripes at her the most is her deployment.

When Master Mordred asks her to stay with the supply troops, she wasn't happy at all, and she has let out a long-winded explanation why she deserved to be fighting alongside her master. However, her master then pulled her irresistible pleading face, the one she has an unrecoverable weakness for, and her heart melted at the sight. She knew Master Mordred was just worried for her, but still... All this time to improve herself, yet she's never given the chance to prove it.

She doesn't need recognition from others, or even her own master. It's more of a personal enjoyment and satisfaction, to know how far she's come from before, and to test herself to the limits. But no one seems to care.

Is it because of her gender? Or is it her looks? She's not a pompous woman, but she does have confidence in her appearance. Did someone take a shine on her and decided to keep her for himself, maybe after her master fell in combat?

The thought sends a chill down her back.

' _Right, just stay optimistic. Maybe it's Master's plan, so I have to be obedient.'_

A glare here and there keeps the men at bay.

Suddenly, the main door opens, revealing Sir Gawain alongside his squires. The rest of the troops stands rigid in salute, but the knight waves them down. His gaze falls upon Cecilia, gesturing her to come to his side.

After she does, he clears his throat to gather everyone's attention.

"4th supply troop, there has been a change of plans."

She can see the question marks on top of everyone's heads, plus the increased agitation in their body language. Maybe someone looking at her will see the same thing? She's not sure.

"No, let me correct myself," he explains. "It's not a change in _our_ plan, but merely the implementation of a second stage."

The men stare intently into his eyes.

"This is kept form you to prevent information leaks. So, if there's an actual spy between you, you can come out now. I swear on my honor you will be trialled fairly, with a guarantee of your safety." He looks around momentarily, as if expecting anyone to take up his offer. "No? Well, let's continue."

His aides behind him has closed the door and brighten the artificial lighting from the candles, before unfurling a massive scroll perched on a pair of high stakes. It turns out to be a map, and one which they all know very well already. After all, it's the map of the surrounding area, and they've studied it intensively ever since they're tasked of this war. However, some of the movement lines and marks differ from the ones they've seen before, depicting the change Gawain mentioned.

"A part of the 2nd troop will join you, as a method of secret offensive strategy." He raises his magnificent sword to use it as a pointer, careful not to accidentally burn the map with Galatine's inherent strength, even when sheathed. "They'll be transported on your carriages, along with a part of your group, and march around to the side of the enemy, where you all will launch a surprise attack. Your numbers will be small, but I have faith in you."

The encouragement doesn't go as well as he's planned, Cecilia can tell. The men aren't stupid; tasking them to carry troops won't make much difference to the weight they've been hauling in the first place, but actively engaging the enemy with minimally-trained troop is practically suicide. Most of them were stationed here to avoid front-lines combat, and thus only equipped to the bare minimum necessary. The surprise factor will do little to help them once the real combat starts, and she can catch some shivering from the corner of her eyes.

"I shall be joining you as well, so don't worry."

' _Ah, now_ that's _some news!'_

Immediately, the air in the room lightens, as the soldiers cheer in their heart for their new commander.

He turns around to face her, lightly saluting, "Then, I shall take control of these men in your place, Miss Cecilia."

Being liberated from the troublesome position, she smiles happily, "It's my honor, Sir Gawain."

This certainly changes things around. Now, she can freely fight with the enemies, instead of having to babysit these half-baked army in the back row. She's glad for the position, make no mistake, since it's rare for a female to lead in a military hierarchy, no matter how low the position, but it's a thankless job. She can feel her hands twitching, eager for battle.

Of course, there's the matter of victory to think about. As Gawain explains further on the details of the plan, her head is churning at full speed, trying to grasp the full strategies deployed here today, and predicting what the enemy will do. Historically, the Picts has more experience in guerilla warfare and surprise tactics, so turning the tables on them with their own strategy is quite clever. However, with limited information from her position as supply commander, she can't grasp the full deployment of the enemy, and she'll have to rely on Gawain's judgment and experience when it comes down to it.

Either way, she'll get to test herself, so she's ecstatic.

* * *

The world will always be consumed by chaos, followed by periods of peace.

Like two faces of a coin, one is inseparable from another. The definition of 'peace' is the 'absence of chaos', which means without chaos, there can be no peace in the first place. The definition of 'chaos' is the 'lack of peace', which means continuous chaos isn't chaos in itself, because there hasn't been peace within it.

Therefore, eradicating just one without harming the other is impossible. The so-called 'heroes' in the past, who fought for the name of 'peace', held a perverse wish deep inside their heart: for there to be chaos. If there were chaos, only then will they be able to save people and protect the innocents, because the chaos was threathening them. If there was no chaos, those so-called 'heroes' were just another ordinary person, not outstanding in any way.

This is a fact Nyneve knows well, and also the source of her misgivings.

SHIROU can never act against her sister, due to fear of eliminating her as well. The two twins are connected deeper than blood, for they share the same 'concept space' in the Inside of the World. A space where every being's essence is spread out across an area, where they rule according to the law of their souls. The 'concept space' of Nyneve and Nimue forms a mystical lake as the door to the Outside, hence their inseparation. Killing one will be like snuffing the life out of a half of a Siamese twin: both will perish in the process.

With all her powers, she's nothing more than a burden.

Of course, that's if she lays still, helpless like the maidens of the fairy tales.

She has done some unsavory things, things she's not proud of, nor things which sits well with her conscience. In order to prevent her sister from going wild and consuming the world with her colors, Nyneve has to be the balancing act, promoting justice and moral to combat the dark evils. Right now, she's very lucky to exist in the same time frame as a Heroic Vessel, but there's no telling what will happen when SHIROU's deployment is pulled out.

The Heroic Vessel system is a good thing, at least according to her own opinion. She always finds the previos system which promotes the use of Counter Force and Guardians to be too cruel for humanity, and the humans who become the victim by being Alaya's forces. The despair and destruction which follows every one of their deployment to this realm disgusts her, for the sheer irony of killing one to save many causes her proverbial stomach to revolt. If it is a system to protect humans, then shouldn't it strive to save them all? Why sacrifice, when it's capable of doing something even better?

If it's in the name of efficiency, she can understand. After all, spending too much energy to combat fate, when it's already penned down in the Akashic Records, is tantamount to shooting itself in the foot. There's always been a tight battle between the occupants of nature and nature itself, which in this case is humans against Gaia. There are manifestations of Mother Nature like Nyneve herself who sides with humans more often than not, but most are more in tune with her sister, seeking to eradicate the Earth from the bipedal parasites.

Naturally, the wishes of offsprings differ from those who birth them. Humans require resources and sustenance for their survival, where nature needs solitude in order to bloom. After millennia of learning, humans finally succumb to their greed, because why stop when there's still more? The past where everything must be in accordance of the principle of 'making do' has long gone, replaced by the golden era of innovations and explorations.

In that action, the humans seek to wound and kill nature.

It's precisely because of this inherent... imperfectness of human beings, that she stands between a rock and a hard place.

Her sister always has an easier time of fulfilling her desires. The human heart is weak, easily goaded into temptations, creeping between cracks of moral lapse. Almost no human can resist her sweet whispers, because they promise something real, something material, not just mental fulfilment and personal satisfactions of achieving one's ideals.

Inadvertently, Nyneve grows closer to the only one she can currently depend on.

Her previous experiences in dealing with Counter Guardians hasn't gone smoothly. They claim to act on behalf of humanity, while their hands are busy slaughtering humans left and right without mercy. Their eyes are but soulless windows to their tortured souls, their body moving about with robotic efficiency, uncaring of those around them. For the heroes of humanity who fell into Alaya's trap, that existence can only equate to hell.

However, this man... SHIROU is different.

When she thinks about it carefully, the cause is clear. The Heroic Vessel program is a vastly improved version of the Counter Guardians, even if there's still some hiccups here and there. Alaya finally sees the need of emotional connection between her agents and the people she desires to save, instead of just amputating the sick parts. Hence, even if it's just an imitation, SHIROU gains emotions by learning from those around him.

This tendency also exposes one of her weak points.

His Pure Eyes are like a mirror. They take everything around them without fail, capturing every shred of details from anyone glanced by them. Every movement, every speech, every desire, every thoughts... everything is clearly displayed on them, and absorbed to be studied and analyzed.

After their few encounters, she is already certain he has already seen through her.

It differs from a human's empathy. It is, after all, just the sense of kinship between two kindred souls; an imaginary bridge between hearts and minds which allows limited amount of information transfer. Those Eyes... are completely different monsters altogether, unveiling every little secret of their opponent to gain any sort of advantage.

This feeling... is slightly embarrassing.

She doesn't have much to hide, but knowing how much she has exposed to him...

She feels what humans call 'excitement', perhaps?

In any case, ever since she granted Excalibur to Altria Pendragon, and her sister did otherwise to Lancelot, he was the only person she could relate to, in terms of sharing problems and thoughts. Just the small exchanges, the small conversations, usually is enough to fill her day, after being cooped inside her territory for so long. His students seem a nice bunch as well, the homunculus particularly letting out a rather cute squeak whenever Nyneve caught her off guard.

The three existences are as rare as diamonds on the side of the road. Honest, loyal, and talented, she has already nominated them as her champion in her heart against her sister.

However, there's still one thing which has been a cause of concern.

The Heroic Vessel SHIROU is infinitely more sensitive and emotional compared to his preceding Counter Guardian, but also much more heartless and calculating.

Those expressions he makes with his facial muscles, and the sounds he lets out from his mouth, are all just a veneer on the surface. A very well-made veneer, for sure, and indistinguishable from the real thing, but a veneer nonetheless. Inside, he's even more empty and cold than the Counter Guardian EMIYA, as a price to pay for his powers. His consciousness remains, his soul intact, just not the same to before his ascension.

If it comes down to it, will he still stand up to their shared wishes? Will he still push for the salvation of everyone, and fulfill his dreams? Or will he resort to the same logic as those Guardians before him, if he's helpless to do so? Will he fly his banner high, even if his death is certain?

In that regards, she's grateful for the existences of Mordred Pendragon and Cecilia Alcott. Both of them anchor his feet firmly to the ground, because without them, she suspects he'll only become the agent of destruction all of them fear.

However, the question still remains in the back of her mind, unanswered.


	16. Mortal Combat

**Hello, guys! Welcome of the next installment of HV-S01!**

 **First of all, thank you for all of you who've reviewed and favorited this story for the last chapter, and those of you who're loyal from the very first chapter. Massive gratitude! Thanks also for Dragonjek for the song recommendations! I'm still waiting for others to give some suggestions, though. What song spurs you on? That tune which makes your blood boil and enjoy a good fight scene? Keep the reviews coming!**

 **Second, I've just realized that when I entered [Shirou] and [Mordred] and [Ratings: All] into the FFn story filter, I'm in the top 5. _Top 5!_ Wow, never thought I'd make it this far. Next, on to TV Tropes!**

 **Third, some of you are maybe wondering what on earth that acronym in the title means. Well, [HV] stands for Heroic Vessel, [S] stands for SHIROU, and [01] is the first story regarding him and the plot surrounding him. Now, I did mention SHIROU is the _tenth_ Heroic Vessel, because the others before him were considered failures and thus recycled into the next generation, but this numerical arrangement has no relation to the title. SHIROU is the tenth... because his name in kanji has a 'ten' in it (an element in the 'Shi' kanji, though the full kanji is read differently than 'ten', which is 'jyuu'). Seriously, check it out. Future stories will also incorporate this idea, stolen from a Detective Conan movie I watched as a kid.**

 **That said, enjoy! Tell me if you liked the action in this one!**

 **Disclaimer: November... A barren month for anime and manga... Now's a good time to release a new installment, Nasu!**

* * *

The air feels dead to Cecilia.

Well, it must just be her, because the men around her, all the soldiers assigned to this division, seems restless. They shift their cheaply-made weapons uncomfortably, fingers gripping the handles until their knuckles are white. From the looks in their eyes, the air must feel so alive with killing intent and fighting spirit, they can't help themselves from acting like a virgin during their first night.

To be honest, she doesn't understand their feelings. Surely, all those time they wasted training in the army must bear fruit? If a soldier invests his energy into a position in the battlefield, surely he expects this much? Why the jitters? Why the nervous tapping? They're really an odd bunch. That said, supply troops are rarely requested to directly clash swords with the enemy, so it's understandable from a logical standpoint.

For her who has faced far more powerful beings than just regular soldiers, at least from her position, the Pict army looks like a joke.

They are well-trained, sure. They are well-organized, sure. And maybe when comparing skills alone, those Picts can take on three of her makeshift troops at once. However, she can't help but look down on them, even after she berates herself for it in Grandmaster Shirou's voice. Underestimating the enemy is a death sentence, he often says. It's better to overestimate and prepare for every contingency, rather than be caught off-guard and killed like a stupid beast.

That said, if she says she isn't feeling any sort of excitement right now, she'll be lying.

At long last, the signal flag is raised high, and Gawain dashes forwards on the carriage, disguised as a regular driver.

They all follow suit, and she's impressed how well they react, given their previously unreliable condition. There has been no trip-ups, no trailing sections, all rolling down to the unsuspecting enemy flank like a human-horse avalanche.

The second signal flag is raised, replacing the first one.

Hissing sound fills her eardrums, as the fuses jutting out from behind front carriages are lit. She's not exactly sure what the fuses are made of to be able to make such a sound, but the effect is clearly convincing. The drivers all hop onto the carriages, jumping to the second line of carriage behind them.

With a certain inevitability, the oil-filled drums hidden within the front carriages all crash into the enemy ranks, throwing pillars of flame into the air. The second file of carriages, carrying the soldiers, halts in place to unload their occupants, signalling the start of the battle

The scent of burning flesh and fat causes some of the more inexperienced driver to turn green, but they magnificently hold on strong. Cecilia is also troubled, but manages to quench her churning stomach and focus on the incoming counterattack. Fortunately, Gawain has breached a section of the disorganized enemy line, giving her and the men behind her an easier time to attack.

The wall of spears and shields greeting her feels like a welcoming shower. This is what she has come to know this past year: dodging, parrying, and attacking all in the same time. She's never good at all the political bullshit, even if she's somewhat proud of her brain, namely because she's sick of the lies and barely-covered threats thrown around the room. In this situation, she thrives in the very nature of it: straightforward and fast-moving.

The Picts aren't as off-guard as Gawain liked, however, and has already formed a tidy, though thin, defensive line. Of course, in front of a Knight of the Round Table, they'll fare no better if they put a wet cloth in front of them instead.

He slashes horizontally as the opening salvo, a light brighter than the noon sun bisecting the spearmen clean into two, along with their weapons. From the opening he created, there's already a few better-equipped officers filling in the hole, deciding this blonde knight as the biggest threat to eliminate first.

Not minding them, Gawain continues to run full speed, putting himself in an awkward tempo against the counterattacking small unit.

A whistling sound flies past his ear, and a black blur caves in one of the officer's forehead with a sickening crack.

Giving a discreet thumbs-up behind his back towards Cecilia, he heads further into the main camp, followed by a few of his aides.

Without stopping, she flicks her wrist, and the carbotanium pendulum sweeps across downwards, tangling a couple of her enemies' feet. As they tumble, she positions herself in line with their comrades, putting the entangled pair behind their advancing peer to avoid being tag-teamed from both sides. Smoothly, she slids sideways to avoid a swift downswing, using the momentum to ram her sword past the other soldier's shield into his gut.

Unable to see the thrust from behind his shield, the officer collapses instantly. To his credit, the first officer isn't distracted by his comrade's death, connecting his downswing with an upwards motion towards her hip, which is slightly open due to her thrusting motion. She twists her body, but instead of counterattacking with her sword, she lashes out with a kick mid-rotation, smashing her steel boot into the officer's wrist, smashing the bones.

As she turns, her sword has already completed another arc, beheading the screaming officer.

She jumps back, pulling her new pendulum along with her, sadly already disentangled by the two officers behind the first two. Letting Gawain's men to handle them, she rushes to the side, trying to grasp another weak point in the formation for insertion.

She feels good. Her body is light, her movements are crisp, her weapons are razor-sharp and lethal. She tries not to aggravate her adrenaline _too_ much, lest she gets carried away, but goes along with the flow of the battle methodically, as taught by her Grandmaster.

A group of spearmen tries to corner her, but she simply parries one of the spear's thrust downwards, and uses the now-stuck spear as a launching platform to jump over and out of their reach. Using the momentum of her landing, she dashes forward towards one of the supply shack, drawing the enemy formation to collapse inward. The sound of battle is heating up behind her, letting her know her own comrades _do_ have some balls to engage, after all.

Spinning the pendulum quickly in her hands, she unleashes the black ball towards the wooden barricade of the storage depot, smashing the door to pieces. Now, it'd be stupid for her to come inside and start sabotaging stuff, since the cramped room will only put her into a trap. She's but a single soldier, so what she needs to do is wreak havoc as much as possible to keep the enemy in chaos.

She throws one of her... 'graduation present' into the open door.

\- BOOM!

The enemies hot on her tail is instantly blown sideways, as the shack blows up with incredible ferocity.

' _Wow! Thank you for that, Grandmaster!'_

Cheering inside her heart, she focuses back towards the layout of the enemy's camp. The blast gives her a slight ringing inside her ears, but not disorienting, allowing her to confirm the surrounding area. The camp is quite big, being the site of the former village she helped evacuate, plus the clearing they've done over the last couple of days.

Casually swinging the tip of her pendulum onto the temple of a general's horse, she leaps forward to finish the job as he falls downwards. He manages to bring up his huge machete to block her lazy swing, but her fist has already slipped past his broken guard, hitting him square in the face as his leg is twisted due to his horse falling on top of it. Before he can shout in pain, a thrust in the throat silences him forever, leaving Cecilia to deal with his shocked subordinates.

Once more, she runs diagonally to them, avoiding any direct confrontation. She has a set of coordinates to go to, already pre-planned the other night, but the mist of battle has started to creep into her vision. She slaps her cheek lightly to refocus her mind, and rushes towards the appointed rendezvous location, leaving the slow-reacting battalion to the small guerilla army behind her.

' _Pace yourself, pace yourself...'_

Chanting the mantra regularly inside her head, she throws more grenades into any places of importance she passes. The series of blasts deter any unit who desires to kill her, giving her plenty of leeway to her destination, save for a few men or so.

About half a mile from her location, Galatine's iconic light shoots up in a pillar.

' _Wow, what a punctual man he is.'_

Complimenting the knight silently, she quickens her pace, as the signal means the main battle will soon start.

"Master, please win."

The prayer has barely left her mouth when the ground beneath her feet disappeared.

* * *

"So, this is how it comes down, huh?"

The voice speaking to me is almost friendly in tone, and although I know better than to trust him, I know this is just how his character at best, so maybe the jovial nature is real.

Floating in the air overlooking the mess underneath us, Galehaut and I stand face-to-face.

Well, when I say 'stand', I'm speaking in my behalf, as the demon is fully capable of self-sustained flight. Despite my most feverish dreams, and some coaxing to Alaya, I can't do that. I have to make do with these thin metal circles, specifically designed to assist me in aerial combat. Measuring about two feet in diameter and weighing virtually nothing, it's made of enchanted Inconel, giving it tremendous durability against heat generated by air resistance and the rigours of combat.

They're sharp too, so I can easily fulfill the 'Sword' requirement of my Tracing.

I grin in return.

"Well, there's always prison."

He guffaws, lighting up his youthful features.

"You jest!" Still smiling, he says, "I'll take option three, if I may: Unconditional release. How's that sound?"

"I thought option three is 'fight to the death'," I joke.

He waves his hand about. "No, no, that's so old-fashioned. We're in the era of diplomacy, no? Let's do this like normal men-" He pauses, the sheepishly continues, "We can't do that, can we?"

I shake my head.

"We're not even 'normal', if that's what you're suggesting, Galehaut," I calmly reply.

Mana gathers around him, as easy as breathing. I keep my body relaxed, primed to react to any situation.

"Then, let's restart the wheels of fate right here, shall we?"

At those words, I swing Kanshou towards the empty air, bisecting a grain of sand in half.

The tingling in my fingers proves my suspicion. That grain is fired at supersonic speed, enough to puncture a bear's skull from a mile away. This close, the impact is enormous, and its brethren is swarming around Galehaut's palm, condensing into a solid piece of quartz.

' _Oh, this is going to hurt, isn't it?'_

Groaning internally, I prepare my Magecraft as countless glass balls the size of a man's fist form with frightening speed around the demon. I estimate they each have enough kinetic energy to rival trans-continental missiles, and from the numbers alone, I'm going to have a fight in my hands to prevent any of those from impacting below and striking the soldiers.

Without a sound, they launches themselves towards me.

* * *

Trace, on.

TYPE Input → Barrier

Processing mana at B-level...

Reality Marble DISABLED

ENGAGE Phantasm, Overload

 **Invisible Air**

 _~ Bounded Field of the Wind King ~_

* * *

The Broken Phantasm explodes around me, redirecting all the shots sideways and upwards, killing all their lethal momentum. The barrier is quite costly to Break, since it's halfway barrier, halfway a-Magecraft-I-can't-wield-properly, but the investment is clearly worth it, as both of us rushes at each other to take matters into our own hands.

Or not.

A blonde girl clad in an armor fit for a king whispers to my ear, her voice as ethereal and intangible as her form, Beware, my good friend!

Suddenly, he rockets upwards, leaving me in his wake. His more natural form of flying will always have the Agility advantage on my makeshift platforms, so I'm left wandering what his plan of attack is. Is it the usual keep-his-distance style? Or is he preparing for some bigger Magecraft for a one-shot kill?

What a poor thing. Shame, shame... he chose the dark side. He is a good, loyal man.

I've mastered plenty of attack range with my own Magecraft, so I have the option to stand back and watch.

Sure enough, he stops a short distance above me.

However, what I don't like is his smiling face, looking down on my position. Those eyes promise mischief, and mischief from someone as powerful as him can't be goo-

"Oh, shit..."

I detect a huge amount of energy being gathered far beneath me, and sure enough, a gigantic piece of landmark has already broken free of the Earth's crust, coming upwards to our position. How it got past my Eyes, I'll never know, but that's an issue for later.

"A grand stage for our battle," he spreads his arms with pride. "Fitting, no? Come on, praise me, praise me."

You know, that innocent tone is really starting to annoy me...

Slowly, it rises until we both step onto the makeshift island.

I calm myself down to avoid going nuts for being unable to do anything. If I shoot this piece of dirt down, the remains will bombard the field, causing immense collateral damage, because he knew in my limited state, any weapon I pull out won't be able to completely eradicate it from existence. And shooting Galehaut down would only cancel the spell, sending this makeshift meteorite crashing down towards the surface. I don't dare think about the latter's consequences.

One of the Heroic Vessels have control over gravity, and boy, how much I want it now. I'll ask him to teach me the inner workings of it later, so I can adapt it to my skillset.

However, the solution is clearly very simple.

"Now, what will you do, Mr. Vessel?" Galehaut merrily asks. "Bring out your Reality Marble. No, really, it's fine. I won't stop you."

See? Annoying as fuck.

Fortunately, he hasn't achieved a Marble Phantasm yet, which is the norm for his kind, or any Phantasmal Species of comparable strength. I guess it's due to his strong attachment to humanity, coming down to some sort of curse from Gaia for supporting Lancelot this much against its will. I have countermeasures prepared for that eventuality, but I _really_ don't want to clean up the aftermath for that, so I'm grateful.

He's right, though. Fighting in this state, even if I'm able to overpower and defeat him, will not reduce the danger of this giant rock falling down towards the Earth. His eyes are filled with conviction, enough to see this battle to the end, or more likely, his own death. It's rare to see an Imaginary Demon being so passionate for one individual, enough for him to neglect his own life, but I'll be a hypocrite if I comment on that.

Wordlessly, two dozen Black Keys materializes right around him in a sphere formation, blades pointing down towards him. Faster than his previous glass cannonballs, they implode, leaving him with no room to dodge.

And... he simply turns intangible to his true form, then back to his flesh body.

The Black Keys explode before they complete their trajectory, bathing the area with holy flames.

"Guh!"

At last, I squeeze out a pained reaction from him. Predicting his move, I had set the enchantments on the blades beforehand, ready to blow at any moment's notice. Imaginary Demons are very susceptible to Conceptual Weapons which opposes them in faith, so the blast radius of two dozen Broken Codes is enough to char half his body, because he cockily thought just dodging a few feet to the side is enough.

A giant tree spears into my direction, Galehaut desperate to create some distance from me. I swing Bakuya, clad in Sword Burst, and cleanly cleaves the tree and the ground beneath it in half. I have to modulate the power to avoid bisecting the entire floating island, though.

Countless bullets and spears made out of rocks and trees hurl themselves at me. Calculating each of their trajectory with my Eyes and a Reinforced brain, I swiftly cut them all apart with minimal movement. I try to advance while I swing, but this spray has bought Galehaut valuable seconds, ones I can't afford him to have.

With a grunt, I put more strength into a horizontal swing.

The landscape is neatly trimmed, as if mowed down by a giant invisible blade. Sadly, I can't hit the demon with that attack, but at least I manage to clear some space around me. My victim floats down gingerly, his youthful form already discarded to make way for his original one.

White hair, pale skin, with red tattoos coming up his neck and limbs, Galehaut stands majestically. His build is similarly tall and imposing, though not to the extent of some demi-humans I know. His eyes has shifted colors: black sclera and pure white pupils, almost like two shining moons glaring at me.

I reflexively hop sideways.

Sure enough, with my Eyes activated, I can see an arrow mark forming on the ground where I just stood. It points to the direction where my back is facing, as a physical representation of his personal brand of Magecraft. Well, I say 'Magecraft', but for beings like him, it's not bound in rules similar to the human version.

Galehaut's specialty is called 'Vector', and it does basically what it says: manipulate any object's vector. Consequently, acceleration and decceleration are also a part of his arsenal, giving him a power often mistaken for telekinesis. Vectors can only go in a straight line, so his high-speed movements to all sides is a result of him being able to control his powers so well.

In his flesh body, he can manipulate material objects freely, including living bodies. The reason why he hasn't targeted my body with it is because in our limited initial forms, his powers can't surpass my innate Magic Resistance, so the point is moot. Attacking with strengthened objects is a good decision from him, since I can't cancel his Vector upon impact because it's only activated at the beginning of the attack. Once an object is launched, only air resistance can slow it down, but his ability makes the effect negligible, at best.

I have a sneaking suspicion he'll be able to do so to my body this time, having assumed his true form.

I continue to dodge sideways, as more and more arrow marks stamp themselves on the position I just were. What makes this power difficult to control is the processing process: Galehaut has to designate the target coordinate and the change of vector he desires. The split second gap between his decision and his power applying is enough for me to escape. Fortunately, it seems only his strength increased, not his mental calculation speed.

I run and run and run in circles, Eyes wide open to scan his body movements. Gauging his intentions from his eye movement, his gesture, his Prana flow, anything, just enough to keep him at bay. I'm quite sure the lag will grow once he starts to move his body, so all I have to do is find a way past that automatic barrier he has set up earlier when I was pruning his bullets.

I stop my leg, changing my direction from lateral movement to a literal one. Dashing straight at him, there's already several arrow marks pointing in my direction, which will send me flying back with double the momentum if I'm caught in their range. The high-speed change of direction will produce so much G-force that my current Reinforced organ will take a beating, so I do the next most logical thing.

I dematerialized Kanshou and Bakuya.

* * *

Trace, on.

TYPE Input → Spear

Processing mana at B-level...

Reality Marble DISABLED

ENGAGE Phantasm

 **Gáe Dearg**

 _~ Crimson Rose of Exorcism ~_

* * *

I empty my mind.

I empty my heart.

I empty my self.

Letting my body to be a simple Vessel, ready to be forged into any weapons I desire.

My lord, I have come to your assistance.

A man's voice, maturity tinged with childish tones, resounds inside my chest.

An image of a handsome black-haired man, a mole under one of his eyes, appears in my mind, calmly smiling. To me, he's a specter floating above me, before plunging his entire being to my empty one.

In the end, my body is simply the bone of my sword, a template of which can be shaped into any weapon necessary to defeat my enemy. Thinking of me, of myself as a Sword, I let the essence of the Noble Phantasm to materialize inside my body. There can be no hesitation, no interruption in the process, or my consciousness will be swallowed by the spear itself.

Now, I _am_ Gáe Dearg.

I tear through the concentric ring of arrows, all pointing away from Galehaut, and punch him in the face.

A shockwave is produced upon impact, sending his body flying parallel to the ground. Before he can fly too far, I jump lightly, kneeing him in the gut and smashing his body into the ground. He flails his hand, trying to activate his power, but I grab it and tear it from his shoulder joint, then proceed to do the same with the rest of his four limbs.

I let out a final punch to his face, landing with a satisfying thud.

Cancelling the Possession, i stand up, looking down at his mangled body.

Galehaut is barely worn out, his breathing steady despite the pain I put him through. Of course, with Gáe Dearg being a demonic spear, the effect on his body will be minimal, and he'll regenerate those limbs in a while, but for pinning him down in place, this is enough. As he lifts his head, Durandal is already kissing the base of his throat, ready to kill him at any moment's notice.

The trouble with Possession is it strips me of any compassion. Assuming the personality of a 'Sword', a weapon created only to harm things, is naturally going to be a problem, especially if my goal is saving someone. I don't like to use it very much, but to avoid revealing my limiter, this is a form I have to use. Strangely, if I only change my body composition to a sword, it'll only exhibit the normal behavior of replacing all my tissues with swords, but I can keep my emotional facade just fine. Possession merely returns me to how I was before, which is counterproductive to my mission.

You are always so ungrateful, my lord, the man chides. If this is all, then put this sorry excuse of a demon to rest. His fate is a fickle one, one you shouldn't try to save.

His image fades into nothingness, before silence reigns back inside me.

Spitting out a bodily fluid similar to blood, he coughs repeatedly, hoarsely saying, "Wow, that's w-weak, Heroic Vessel... Guh... Are y-you... looking down on me? Holding ba- Tch... ugh... that much?"

I slowly speak to him, "Give up, Galehaut. You already knew where this'll end, right?"

He smirks. "Is that a serious question?"

In hindsight, I already know what his response will be. He has gone too far into this to back out now, and even if he does, I suspect there's something which will force him to do otherwise. He's already a dead end, and we both know it.

One more person I fail to save.

"Yes, because I want to save you," I bitterly reply.

His smirk tones down, replaced by a sad smile. "Don't feel bad. You did far more than anyone else, and perhaps the only one who will. I have no regrets, so my salvation has already come in this position."

Knowing his next actions, I still urge him on. "Just be greedy for one second. Seriously, do it."

I stare him in the eyes. "If you want to chase your dreams to the bitter end, why give up now? Take my hand, and I'll do my hardest to reach a compromise between us. Don't lay down like this... be more selfish and reach out to it, even if fate denies you."

"There'll be no compromise," he flat-out denies. "My vision and yours are too different, and in the end, we'll only destroy each other. This way of thinking... certainly, it's different from you humans. I am but a demon, after all."

Indeed, what he says is the absolute, undeniable truth. He desires for an ending like those in chivalric stories, where there is a definite boundary between white and black. In his case, he firmly puts Lancelot in the 'white' section, trying his damnest to eradicate the 'black' side, which is pretty much everyone else, just for this one man. Meanwhile, the world often isn't like that, colored by a multitude of grey shades, blurring the line between what's right and wrong.

We can't all live in a story, after all.

This imperfect balance is the backbone of the concept of Heroic Vessel. In it, lies the belief that although men are impure and stupid, there exist a portion of it which is worth fighting for, and even the rest always has a right of salvation. We all try to reconcile both sides, childishly dreaming of a perfect peaceful utopia. Even if we will never achieve it due to humans' nature, it's an ideal we all feel worth fighting for, and the one we hold in our hearts the tightest.

I sense we will never reach an agreement, but such impossibility is my duty to overcome.

"Galehaut..." I warn, my voice grave. "Don't do it!"

As if on cue, a black tendril shoots out from the middle of Galehaut's abdomen, targeting my heart from point-blank range.

An undodgeable move.

* * *

At first, Altria could scarcely believe her eyes.

Her tactic of outflanking the enemy under the guise of a supply route has worked well, even if only a few minutes has passed. Reports have been coming in of the enemy's unrest, and a few gates open here and there for the necessary troop movement to contain the manouvre.

She gave the order to attack, and her army was very swift that day.

As the enemy fans out, a part of them facing the other direction to Gawain's troops, her cavalry has reached the enemy in barely 10 minutes, toppling their meagre defensive line in seconds. Some of the magi hegan their counterattack with several salvo from the back, but Merlin was at hand, countering them with ease.

It's a good thing they put the quadruple-layered curse on top of that former village. As expected, the experienced enemy magi quickly detected the first and second layer, but Merlin has woven an extra couple of layers around the local vein, making the simple act of drawing mana from the surrounding a suicide move for those magi. As a result, their chanting time and spell strength has weakened considerably, and the troops were reacting to orders sluggishly.

Then that monster appeared.

It was more like a black cannonball than a living being, to be honest. It moved so fast, the black mist covering it actually fooled her eyes into believing it's some sort of ghastly apparition, coming to her like a devil hunting a sinner. It bulldozed its way into the front cavalry line, but Kay's quick reaction cleared a path around it before it could damage the formation even more.

The trick worked, as the thing looked around confused, like a mad dog having its target taken away. The sole thing she could see clearly was the red color emitted around that thing's eyes, scanning the environment with a crazed haste.

The red color turned towards her, and she knew who its target was.

Suddenly, a sense of dread filled her heart like never before. It wasn't due to the sheer killing intent being unleashed at her, since she's experienced many worse. It wasn't due to the vagueness of the thing's movement, wreaking havoc for the knights attempting to contain him. What she felt was more of an instinct, a sure-fire revelation for something terrible.

Sure enough, she saw it.

Through the mist, a glimpse of a sword could be seen by everyone present. It's tinted with a black color, radiating an intense feeling of dread from anyone watching it. However, there's no mistaking the shape, since it's so similar to her own sword.

Arondight.

Which means... that mad dog's identity was Lancelot.

Snapping back to the present, Altria puts her hand on Excalibur's hilt.

She doesn't know why or how he ends up that way, but it doesn't matter right now. Currently, he's an enemy, one which has taken the life of his fellow countrymen. His informal status of a traitor is still an unknown to the majority of the troops, so her priority is to defeat him with haste. Whether or not he's lucid right now, or even only dancing on someone else's palm, she has to take action.

A hand on her shoulder halts her momentarily.

Shooting a questioning glance to Merlin, she states, "It has to be me, Merlin."

"Why?" He asks back.

"There is a distinct possibility he is driven to such state because of my decisions. Therefore, I must make it right."

"You can't," he argues. "It doesn't look like he'll listen to your sermons, or to your sword. Even if he does, what chance do you have against Arondight?"

It's a correct logic. Arondight has bathed in the blood of a dragon, killed during one of Lancelot's adventures. As such, it has a strong Anti-Dragon effect, which will weaken her once she gets close to him. She has talent in long-distance magic, however, regretfully she has never studied it because it's unfit for a king of her status.

Once more, she regrets one of her decision.

The black knight launches himself at her direction with unbelievable speed, already inhuman in its execution. Her Imperial Guards has already spread in formation, ready to take the insane charge, Bedivere taking point. He can't have missed the sight of Lancelot's sword, so he knows the danger. Even so, Altria still steps forward, her uneasy heart has already taken control of her decision.

"Altria! Stop!" Merlin warns.

"Then what do you want me to do?" She asks coldly. "You know none of them is a match for a Lancelot which has been empowered as such! There's no choice-"

"There is," a voice cuts her argument.

Looking to the side, Altria can't help but make a surprised expression at the sight of her daughter, clad in a unique armor. The design looks like it's the creation of a lewd artist, crafting such a purposeful, yet sensual set of protective clothing. The undershirt is a red gown, the kind used by princesses and female dignitaries, flowing to her knees and leaving her upper shoulder bare. A chestplate covers her front side, yet the gown has no backside, letting everyone see her smooth, fair back, uncovered by metal plating. Metal gloves and arm protector fit over silky sleeves, also red with white adornments, and the skirt part of the gown is covered with overlapping plates of armor. The silver and red color scheme is certainly conspicious, yet due to Mordred's natural grace and beauty, they become a compliment to her appearance instead.

Not even the large sword on her side can mar the image.

Mordred's figure disappeared with a big shockwave.

The red and black cannonballs collide with each other in mid-air.

Altria feels like her heart has jumped to her throat.

From what she can feel, Mordred carries much more concentrated dragon blood within her than Altria herself, perhaps due to Morgan or someone else's modification. Clearly, it has elevated her physical capability beyond the King's, but it will face even more of a disadvantage against Arondight. The thought of Mordred being hurt in front of her...

No, she mustn't think like that. Mordred engages him with full knowledge of the risk, so she has to trust her daughter to come back from this fight alive.

And hopefully, so does herself.

Briskly, she signals to the flag-bearer, officially starting the drums of war.

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **C**

 **Crimson Rose: Flower Blossom Armor  
Rank: A  
Type: Anti-Unit  
Range: 0  
Max. Targets: 1**

 **A set of armor presented to her by the blessing of the Lady of the Lake. Crafted from her own desires to protect her Kingdom and the people in it, it grants her protection from 'hostile attacks' by reducing the damage in half up to rank A. Due to the quirks of her swordsmanship, this Noble Phantasm has little opportunity to showcase its strength, although it's almost always active, consuming barely any Prana.**

 **When activated, it transforms Mordred's appearance to the ideal 'Princess Knight'. Silver breastplates, silver gauntlets, and silver skirt armor covers peach, red, and gold underclothes and skirt. The whole set resemble a blooming rose upside-down. The armor part leaves a sizeable gap on her shoulder and back, giving a skimpy impression, but the armor's effects actually cover the entirety of her body, rendering any attacks aimed in these area moot.**

 **Described as 'airy' and 'mobile', it is the finest armor ever crafted by the Realm of the Faeries. Built-in Fairy Letters allow her to channel her Prana Burst through the armor as well, enhancing its defensive capabilities. When used this way, crimson markings similar to tribal fire tattoos grows alongside the armor, with a wastegate to regulate excess Prana located on her back, giving the impression of dragon wings.**

 **F**

 **Flushing Meadows  
Rank: E  
Type: Anti-Unit, Anti-Army  
Range: 20  
Target: 20**

 **A modern grenade, adapted to work on the materials found in King Arthur's time. It's more compact than its modern counterpart, smaller than a softball. Its payload is designed to burn as efficiently as possible, and thus lacks any fire damage, concentrating on pure physical impact and shrapnel speed. It excels in 'flushing' out enemies in encamped spaces, due to its lack of fire-causing and oxygen-consuming materials, and can be used in close quarters combat, provided enough protection.**

 **For Someone's Glory (Fake)  
Rank: B+  
Type: Support  
Range: 1  
Target: 1**

 **An artificial Noble Phantasm created by Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, after glimpsing into the future. It takes the form of a jet-black armor which fuses with its wearer's flesh and bones, making movement extremely flexible and form-fitting. It has high defensive capabilities, both physical and magical, but it robs the wearer of his intellect and sanity slowly as a cost. To allow control, the armor lacks preventive measures against mental manipulation. It's created as a set with the tainted Arondight, emitting the same dark energy as its current form.**

 **P**

 **Possession**

 **A Magecraft inspired by a specific aria of the Heroic Vessel SHIROU's Tracing. It partially summons the spirit of the owner of a weapon, giving SHIROU access to skills and abilities he previously lacked due to mismatching physical and spiritual requirements. Care must be exercised before using this Magecraft, lest the spirit will overcome a weakened self.**

 **S**

 **Sword Burst (Fake)**

 **A technique used by SHIROU to simulate the effects of Prana Burst, then modified to suit his nature. It essentially forms an extension of his swords, multiplying the inertia and momentum over a distance, as if swinging an invisible blade. It's shaped to conform to his 'Sword' Origin, making it difficult to use with other, dissimilar objects. The strength can be adjusted to his needs, though it's not a technique which can be channeled through all blades. Generally, weapons with strong personalities can interfere with the technique's workings, limiting it's ultimate potential.**

 **T**

 **Thunderball  
Rank: E  
Type: Anti-Unit  
Range: 20  
Target: 5**

 **A weapon inspired by Eastern rope darts. Its rope is constructed from a material synthesized with Alchemy, based on Kevlar and rubber. Flexible and light, it's colored dark to decrease its visual impact to deceive the enemy. At its end, several objects can be equipped to suit the situation: a metal alloy pendulum, a ceramic alloy knife, a heavy metal weight, a hook, and so on. Wielding it requires great skill and dexterity, although it lacks in pure power, therefore unsuited to armored combat.**

 **V**

 **Vector**

 **A Magecraft from a different dimension. By casting an arrow mark below an object, it can freely manipulate the vector of said object according to the specified direction. Mass is not the limiting factor, but the object's Magic Resistance is. Often confused with Telekinesis, which can maniuplate acceleration as well.**


	17. The Truth to the Rumors

**Hey, guys! How's it doing! Loving the reviews and follows and favorites as always!**

 **Now, this chapter might've come a little later than usual, but for good reason. One, I was busy with Christmas events, and two, stumped by IRL work plus beta-ing two stories. The first one you're already familiar with, which is Fate New Rebellion (FSN X Akame ga Kill! crossover), and the second will be announced soon. Now, as these stories also takes shape, mine will also advance forward, and hopefully, better-liked! I'll try to update at least bi-weekly or tri-weekly, although next year, as my thesis shapes up at university, the update pace might slow down a little. Don't worry if I'm not that active in forums and reviews and such; my country's (or at least my internet provider's) ban of FFn has really hindered me.**

 **That said, I'm really looking forward to Heaven's Feel!**

 **Disclaimer: I _really_ will make FGO into an anime with unlimited budget, preferrably with Ufotable producing it, if I were Nasu.**

* * *

Another person turns into ash as Filvis waves her slender rapier at his direction.

Calmly dashing forward with speeds beyond mortal limits, she accurately breaks a heavy infantry's neck with a quick straight kick to his throat before he can react. Using the impact as a springboard, she slides sideways and severs the legs of an approaching group of soldiers, her rapier flashing with bright white light. The wide-area beam cleanly cuts their legs below the knees, leading them to roll around in agony.

Inhaling deeply, she focuses her Od into the tip of her rapier, before thrusting out with all her might.

The wall of soldiers right in front of her parted like the ancient Red Sea, flesh and bones roasted clean off into ash. The high-powered thrust slams into the row of flaming trebuchets at the back row of the Roman's army, annihilating them in an instant. An opportunist man jumps her, thinking the large movements she made will dull her reaction, but a blinding light pierces clean through his forehead, the visceral brain matter already cauterized completely by the high heat.

Lowering her joined index and middle finger from behind her cloak, the half-elf surveyed the surroundings.

' _Tch, that giant island is still floating in the air...'_

At the start of the battle, both sides gawked at the sheer impossibility of the feat. All of them has experience with Magecraft, sure, but the _scale_ of the act was completely mind-boggling. The commanders knew that instant who the perpetrator was, and even though she loathed to admit it, it's probably for the best if that damn redhead was the one who took Galehaut on.

From a leather pouch, she throws several large pieces of pure diamonds into the air around her. Stabbing her index and middle finger in one direction, a ray of light hits one piece and refracts to the other, creating a complex array of lines and writings. Immediately, cracks appear on the ground, where large pillars of light swallows the enemy formation in them.

A red curse splashes uselessly against a hastily-erected barrier from her, cast by a relatively young magus. It seems she overestimated his strength, as the barrier takes quite a bit of her Od to create, but Mana quickly rushes in to fill the void and replenish her reserves. Before she can counterattack, however, his head exploded in a cloud of red mist, and a large hole is gouged into the ground behind him.

The sheer speed and stealth of the projectile points to one man, and one man only, as its shooter. Made of highly-compressed air, it takes a specialist equipment to create and load it with such speed it resembles modern firearms' rate of fire, and to maintain its integrity over long distances. It's a horrifyingly efficient killing technique, as the attack itself, without prior knowledge, is impossible to defend against.

From a distance away, Tristan waves his arm, and she waves back in gratitude. Not that she needed it, for sure, but a help is always welcome.

As long as it comes from an agreeable person, she won't mind a hand or two. It's only for the sarcastic and overly-knowledgeable people, those she can't read with ease, who irks her the most. One example needs no introduction, but some of the others seems to always know the exact way to get under her skin. Lady Vivian's master comes immediately to mind, with his whimsical decisions and tasteless pranks.

Ah, she's getting distracted.

Her colleagues has been fighting well. They're able to suppress the enemy magi, whether through one-on-one duels or team effort, so she can afford the luxury of taking out the defenseless enemy formation. The plan is for her to take on the elite Roman unit and its commander, along with Tristan and Lamorak, but apart from a few strays, the majority of them can't be seen.

' _Did they outflank us?!'_

Realizing that, she quickly expands her senses.

Sure enough, a small distance from her location, several life signatures are detected.

She hurriedly shoots a green-colored light into the sky to signal Tristan and his cavalry archers.

Moving to that direction will only inhibit Tristan and Lamorak. She has sent the signal properly, so she should focus on cleaning up here and prevent further damage to the Briton army. She doesn't have any particular attachment to the Kingdom or the troops, but deep down, her morals will make her kill herself if she allows these men to die due to her carelessness.

She leaps into the air, her determination renewed.

At the very least, she can boast a better achievement than Shirou this way.

* * *

His blow is tremendously heavy.

Never before has Mordred faced such a skilled enemy before, far beyond her imaginations. Her armor protects her from Arondight's effects, but it's Lancelot's sheer swordsmanship and physical ability which surprises her.

For the umpteenth time, their swords clash together, and both of them instantly reposition their body to find leverage against the opposition. She steps strongly with her left foot forward, but he relaxes his right guard to absorb the sudden boost in momentum. Knowing he'll do that, she keeps her Prana Burst to the absolute minimum in order to maintain her balance, but uses the forward movement to launch a swipe at his feet.

He jumps and strikes hard from vertical, aiming at her skull. She turns her missed swing to a horizontally rotating motion, then does a reverse roundhouse kick from the ground to the air. Her kick, able to shatter boulders in one strike, is splendidly blocked and grabbed by Lancelot, but she jumps alongside him in the air, forcing his body to follow his leg lock downwards to the ground.

He lets go before he's crushed underneath her, and rolls backwards to create some distance. Her feet tap against each other, both using Prana Burst, with the resulting energy propels her mid-air towards him before he can gather his stance. Clarent crashes straight into Arondight's sheath, hurriedly brought up to protect his body, and sends both of them rocketing away from the battlefield.

Easily, she bashes the sheath aside. It's not made of the same quality as Avalon or her own, so it disintegrates in one hit, allowing her to dig her elbow deep inside his sternum. The black armor cracks under the pressure, sending Lancelot back-first into a large tree trunk.

Taking a deep breath, she pauses to think.

To be honest, even she doesn't know the reason why she's fighting him. All she wants is a change in the governing structure of the Kingdom, to prevent the innocents being sacrificed for what her father calls 'the good of the majority'. If so, she should've let this crazy knight to at least cripple Altria, allowing her more control in the court the moment she decides to join it.

It's pretty much a guarantee. Judging by the characteristic of his armor, it should protect him well even against Merlin's spell, and Arondight will weaken Altria enough for it to be an easy job. Granted, going alone against the Imperial Guards, Bedivere, Merlin, and Altria Pendragon also guarantees his death, but for Mordred's dream to be fulfilled, that is the easy route to take. The 'logical one', as Shirou puts it.

He also condemns such a method, and she agrees with him.

If she does that, she won't be any different from the person she hates. Many have fallen the same pit hole, changing themselves into something they loathe and despise in order to fulfill their goals, claiming there's no other way around the problem. The naive, pure hero turns into a jaded killer as he makes his choice to let a person die to save another. The caring princess becomes a ruthless ruler in order to bring peace to her kingdom. The stories and legends are full of this characters, making her even more adamant not to follow in their footsteps.

' _So... let's take the hard way around, shall we?'_

The blackened tip of Arondight passes right in front of her nose as she tilts her head sideways. She taps her palm against Lancelot's follow-up knee, pushing him away with Prana Burst. Instead of being shot backwards like before, the blast merely spins his body as he lets his knee to absorb the blow. He rotates in mid-air, bringing Arondight around to cut her from below.

The arm is blocked by her armored boot, then crushed underneath it as she applies her Prana Burst to step onto the ground. He barely lets out any screams or groan, the spell controlling him probably blocking his nerve signal, and his leg shoots out in a desperation attack. The blow is nowhere near as strong as he needs, however, with his awkward position on the ground.

Her own knee smashes into his abdomen, finally shattering the chest plate after so many attacks. Even with the blow, his arm still comes upward to hit her, but a full-powered straight plows through his helmet and into the front of his skull, knocking him unconscious.

With that over, she weakly goes into her knees, clutching her side tightly.

She calmly regulates her breathing, as the injury isn't as fatal as she fears. It comes from the few blows she lets in so she can counter with something even stronger, as some sort of necessary sacrifice. Yes, her armor prevents Arondight's Anti-Dragon attribute to injure her further, but taking on Lancelot's enhanced blows head-on will still leave a mark, so to speak.

Fortunately, the thin ethereal barrier covering her whole body is still functioning with nary a scratch on it. The blows that make it through are all aftereffects, because the barrier will only defuse a part of the physical energy of an attack in order for it to be as durable as possible. Her natural toughness, being born a homunculus, also plays a factor, as she suspects a normal person will have their internal organs turn to mush if he or she receives such an attack.

Grunting, she hefts the unconscious man to her shoulder, after wrapping Arondight in a makeshift sheath to prevent him from wrestling the weapon away from her the moment he wakes up. Her priority is to get him to Merlin to quickly diagnose and undo whatever it is that makes him berserk like this, so she has no time to waste. She still needs to check in on Cecilia as well, because that girl often pushes herself too far for the sake of somebody else's goal.

Really, is everyone she knows always that reckless? Of course, the description fits her well too, but there has to be _someone_ sane among them.

* * *

At Camelot, the air is heavy with expectations. These couple of days should determine whether their forces emerge victorious from their battles, both to the north and to the east. The guards who have friends and relatives among the troops, the chambermaids and staffs who have lovers and best friends going to war, and the lords and other royalties who have vested interest in the outcome of the battle... all of them, and many more, wait with abated breath for the first news from a courier.

The time of the day is ill-suited for waiting. As the waning moon glows dimly, the eyes who should've been resting are wide open, playing their owners with images and shadows of things they hope the least, draining their vigor. The ones who should've been open in alertness start to droop with fatigue and drowsiness, seducing the bodies with the sweet embrace of a warm bed and blanket.

The condition must be natural. After all, with so many battles in the past few years, the men and women are bound to get weary and start to abandon their responsibilities little by little in anguish and restlessness. The location of the court is chosen at Camelot with both strategic and historical significance in mind, hence, enemy forces rarely engage the area actively.

However, in the still, cold air, none of them heard the strained gasps of a single woman.

Her fingers claw at the earth, trying their utmost to provide grip in order to move her prone body. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish stranded on dry land, forcing what little air around her into her lungs. Yet, her muscles and bones scream at the effort, seemingly uncooperative with her mind which is so desperate to keep her alive.

Alive, away from her pursuer.

She no longer can feel her limbs. The heat in them is long gone, washed away by the copious amount of blood flowing out of them. She doesn't care about her tattered clothes, or her shamefully exposed appearance; all she wants is her salvation from the torture.

She can feel it clearly.

The creeping, disgusting sensation originating from the tips of her toes, crawling up through the blood vessels in her heels, to her knees and thighs. They surge inwards without mercy, swallowing whatever meager resistance she can still offer. The bone-chilling shiver only warns her of the impending danger, as a sharp pain in her bosom cuts her consciousness completely.

The only thing she can think of in her final moments is her lover, fighting hard out there against the enemy.

Silence blows across the small forest near the castle.

After a few moments, it's interrupted by the rustling of clothes, and a small grunt as a female body lifts herself from the ground.

As if they can comprehend its meaning, the small critters around her bolts away from her smile.

A sweet, soft voice echoes around the forest, with no one around to hear it.

"Ah..." she exhales, "As I expected, this body is very high-quality."

She clenches and unclenches her fingers, trying to gauge their physical capability.

"Hmm... what is her name again? I have to say, this lavender perfume is divine. Good job, body."

She puts a finger to her chin, mimicking a thinking pose.

"Ah, I remember!" She happily exclaims, clapping softly.

She says cheerfully, with a tone of finality in them. "This body's name is Vivian, no?" Calmly, she strokes the soft skin of her new body, smiling in content.

"Please, do not worry," Nimue whispers. "I shall take care of it for you."

* * *

Cecilia shifts her feet, trying to get a response from them.

Little by little, they move. She herself feels numb from her waist down, but at least it isn't lower body paralysis, like the wounded soldiers she often sees, so that's good. If she can still move, she can still fight and survive. She promised her master she'll do just that, so she won't disappoint.

Hopefully.

Pushing herself to stand, she quickly stabs her sword to the ground as a makeshift crutch as a fleeting dizziness strikes her head. Her ears ring constantly now, leading her to shake her head to clear them. She knows her body is full of bruises, which will feel like crap later on, but now, she has more important things to take care of.

"I am impressed, young one," a female voice reaches her ears.

No, 'reach' isn't the correct word. Her ears are probably bleeding lightly, making hearing words from a breathtakingly beautiful goddess a few paces away practically impossible. The words coming out from the woman's mouth echoes _inside_ her head, with some form of telepathy. In a normal situation, Cecilia would be charmed by the natural charm inside that voice, but the adrenaline pumping inside her body, combined with Merlin's basic enchantments granted before the battle began, negates the charm's immediate effect.

She focuses her sight at her opponent, trying her best not to be swept off her feet by the woman's beauty.

Her lustrous black hair drops elegantly to her back. Her alluringly curvy body is wrapped in a tight dark leotard, leaving little to imagination and to arousal. Her sparkling red eyes is framed with a dainty nose and lips, combining to a seductive faces capable of bringing many men and women to their knees.

The only thing that keeps Cecilia from dropping her guard is the bloodcurling red spear held in the woman's hand.

The woman opens her mouth again.

"My name is Scáthach, young one," she calmly states. "May I know yours?"

' _Oh, shit...'_

Cecilia's back unwillingly straighten with the mention of the woman's name. She has heard of the legend of this demigoddess, a story from an ancient time. Scáthach is literally unkillable, still surviving into this day, unable to move on from this plane to the next. As the teacher of many heroes from Ireland, and a woman who achieved godhood with mortal effort, she's clearly far, far beyond Cecilia's own abilities to match.

' _Why... why the hell is she here?!'_

This is bad. Very bad.

There's almost nothing in the current battlefield which can stop Scáthach from slaughtering everyone if she wishes. Cecilia has heard of her abilities from Grandmaster Shirou, of how potent her spear and Runecraft is, and how he'd be hard-pressed to even match her in his current condition.

Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.

Even so, should she retreat?

The logical thing now is to inquire what the demigoddess desires, fulfill it, and get the hell out of here. She desperately racks her head for a way to combat this woman, anything at all, but comes out empty.

Well, might as well answer her, for courtesy's sake.

"Cecilia, ma'am," she answers, her tone slightly harder than she likes.

"Fufufu, don't be so nervous," Scáthach laughs. "I'm here to pay off a debt, so I'll go easy on you, alright?"

The pair of red eyes bore into Cecilia's skull with frightening sharpness.

"So, do me a favor and don't struggle."

Cecilia isn't sure how she blocked the first strike just now.

Her feet feels light, because she's flying through the air by the impact. The landing is rough, knocking the wind out of her, and only then she can sense how badly outmatched she is. Her arms scream in acute pain, saying they're completely broken by the attempted block.

"Oh? How surprising."

The arrogant tone falls short of her ears, as her hearing is full of the sound of her own breathing and the shifting of her bones. Each inhalation and exhalation hurts, perhaps due to some cracked ribs, but she doesn't stop. If she stops breathing, it means she's defeated, and she can't afford to do so right now.

If she runs away, everyone behind her will die.

Just like the villagers back then.

\- Static.

Standing up without the use of her arms proves to be more difficult than she thought. She forces herself to flop to her belly, and uses her forehead as leverage to lift her upper body to her knees. With a grunt, she stands up, arms limp to the side.

' _It's not over yet...'_

"I like your eyes, Cecilia," Scáthach comments. "It reminds me of someone dear to me."

She forces a smile, despite her dire situation. "Thank you for... ugh... the compliment..."

With a scream, she dodges the tip of the blood-red spear rocketing past her face, just barely grazing her cheek.

"Uwah!"

The dodge sends her balance completely sideways, necessitating her to hop around to regain it without the use of her arms. The move sends a blinding pain to her brain, courtesy of her broken state, but she stands firm nonetheless.

Scáthach begins to murmur to herself.

"Yes... how similar..."

Yet, her attacks don't stop. Before Cecilia can realize what's going on, her feet are swept from underneath her, followed by a hard thrust to her gut by the spear's butt. Coughing out blood, she desperately grabs the crimson spear, but it feels like trying to move a gigantic tree by pushing it with her own hands.

It's a checkmate.

To be honest, she can pat herself in the back for lasting even more than one strike against this woman. Her hopelessly human body can never match Scáthach's divine one, and the difference in battle experience is as wide as the distance between the ocean and the sky. Instead of struggling, she should've received her fate long ago, and let Scáthach knock her out in the first place.

Yes, that's what she should've done...

If she did, then what will happen to the others fighting with their lives up above?

Even though they're scared and weak, they still answered the call of their Kingdom to bear their arms and risk their lives for a phantasmal glory. The victory in the battlefield means nothing more than an extended period of peace where they still have to struggle to meet a day's needs, fighting against the environment and corrupt nobles. The situation have improved somewhat since King Arthur took reign, but their living conditions are only slightly better than poverty.

But they still fight nonetheless.

So, can she, Master Mordred's student, lie down here and give up?

Of course, the answer is clear.

One of her hands reaches down to her pocket, and throws it from her belt to Scáthach's face.

A light brighter than a hundred suns covers Scáthach's eyes, the wind from the explosion blows her hair backwards.

Cecilia rolls to the side and stands up, ignoring her body's cries of pain, and thrusts a hidden small knife at Scáthach's neck artery.

This is her only hope of victory. If she can't defeat this woman head-on, then trickery will have to do. Even if her bones are broken and her flesh is shaved, if she can still launch one attack, then it's enough. A critical attack, aimed at an opponent's weak point, which has the highest percentage of success.

And her hope snaps alongside the knife upon contact on Scáthach's skin.

A heavy fist lands deep into her broken ribs, launching her towards the side of the crater, creating a smaller one.

Blood gushes out from her mouth with several wet coughs, which in turn aggravates her lungs even more. Cecilia's consciousness has begun to dim, as the pain barely registers in her mind as her brain is starved of blood. Her body feels like lead, sinking into the soft earth below her, as Scáthach slowly walks to her lying position, like a snake ready to swallow its prey.

"Your determination is admirable, Miss," she casually comments. "Too bad your strength doesn't match it."

The spear flashes once, and Cecilia sees no more.

* * *

The sound of rock meeting steel fills the air.

"Why?"

My tone is a mix of sadness and desperation, directed at the soon-to-be-dead demon in front of me.

Galehaut's surprise attack, using his demonic body as material to convert it into an obsidian spear, is thwarted by my body's auto-response. I have long since mastered the use of Unlimited Blade Works, and manifesting it into my own body, especially only a few moments after using Possession, can be done under a split second. Of course, no matter how powerful, an enchanted piece of rock is outweighed conceptually by an amalgamation of Noble Phantasm-grade swords, so it bounces of my skin harmlessly.

He smiles. "As a trigger."

"I won't play fate's game, Galehaut. There's no need to push me into action," I warn him.

"Then finish it."

I plead, "Please, rethink your decision. I have a good plan, and it'll do him good as well, along with you."

He shakes his head in defeat. "Have you not learned of using a sacrifice to fulfill your goal? This is merely one of them... a catalyst, if you will."

"You know me," I jest, "I hate that method."

"But it's necessary, no? Even in your heart, you've already understood it."

"Understanding and acceptance are two completely different things," I argue back.

He laughs mockingly at me, before saying one final time, "I warn you, that attitude of yours will fail you some day."

With that, his body explodes with a black radiance, threatening to consume me and our immediate surroundings.

I sigh at the futile suicide bombing.

A phantom sword appears in my hands as I release all my full power.

"Consume them all, Slash Emperor."

I swing my Knight Arms lazily, and around the blade, the ripped fabric of reality shines with the brilliance of a blue sky, showing the Truth for the floating island's inhabitants to see. That said, I apologize to them in my heart, since I have to annihilate every last speck of dust from the sky to prevent Galehaut's energy or this flying meteor to crash into the lands below.

Using it doesn't require much of my magic energy. Simply by using the floating island as fuel is enough to empower it to utterly erase every last trace of our fight. Sure enough, as I complete my swing, nothing remains of our battlefield other than a small crack in the World.

I back off slightly, avoiding the backlash of Gaia repairing itself before it can identify me as a Heroic Vessel.

I scan the surroundings, confirming who or where I'm needed the most.

Having decided on my course, I float down gingerly via two thin metal discs under my feet, disappointment filling my heart.

Yet another person who rejects my hand...

* * *

A hard hit impacts Justin's shield, lifting him off his feet and sending him skittering a few feet backwards. Before he can catch a breath, his forces his body to duck as a distortion in the air itself through the place his head has previously been with a ferocity of a charging bull. If it hits him dead on, it'll tear through his body clean and leave a perfectly circular wound, without a doubt.

Because of his broken posture, the incoming war hammer bashes his sword in an awkward angle, knocking his shoulder out of its joint. It's fortunate the blade isn't broken, since it'll really mean the end for him. His enchanted equipments are holding well, but the burden caused by his unrelenting and incredibly skillful enemies are too much to bear for his own body.

Tristan thrums his bowstring, creating a single joyful tone, and shoots clean through the Roman's forearm, this time with a thinner air-arrow to ensure a mere cut to Justin's arm tendon. At the moment of contact, opposing enchantments fight for supremacy, but the superior force of the air-arrow eventually prevails against the passive boost from the various jewelry Justin wore. As a result, his sword is knocked away, leaving him with only a shield for support.

He grunts, and changes the grip on his shield. The shield is made with three handlebars: one at the center, and two on each ends. He switches to one end, and swings the shield horizontally to parry a frighteningly fast follow-up from the hammer.

Both weapons clash with a strong metal ring, but the narrower metal edge of the shield manages to lever its way past the hammer's center of balance, giving its owner some space to breathe. Again, a long breeze flies between his legs, indicating several air-arrows flying at his legs with uncanny accuracy, and while he dodges some and twirls his shield to block the rest, Lamorak is already hot on his heels, his mighty hammer moving in an upwards motion.

Desperate, Justin throws himself forward at the hammer, shield poised underneath him. The hammer strikes it dead-on, but before the inhuman strength of Lamorak rips the shield from his arms, he steps _onto_ his shield, thus is launched upwards and away from the large knight.

His head takes the momentary break to compose a new retreat plan to safety, at least to procure a new weapon. Alas, an air-arrow rips straight through his thigh, extracting a muffled scream from his mouth as he lands incorrectly and aggravates the new wound. Fortunately, the air-arrow is shot with so much power it tears clean through, but the wound is abnormally large, as if a molten cannonball has burned a hole through the flesh.

A heavy thud from a steel boot warns him of the impending danger, but he can no longer muster any strength to his legs because of his fatigue and wounds. Stretching his neck upwards, a metal block forming a horrific mock-up of a hammerhead is coming down fast. If it hits, no, _when_ it hits, his head is guaranteed to transform into a red porridge.

\- BOOM!

No, it isn't the sound of him meeting his own maker.

Justin feels the ground buckle and disappear underneath him in rapid succession multiple times, like the earth has just vibrated with great ferocity. Indeed, the earthquake topples Lamorak and Tristan off balance, though not enough to make them fall to their knees. Rather than thanking fate for the opportune moment of escape, he stands there gobsmacked, witnessing the great disaster befalling the area.

The entire battlefield has scrambled into a chaotic mess.

Major groups of people fighting each other now look no more than ants on a plate being shaken around. Some horses have already abandoned their inexperienced riders, running wild, trampling anything left and right in panic. Several geysers of groundwater suddenly erupts from different spots, expressing their anger of being disturbed of their natural peace.

It doesn't matter if they're Roman, Saxons, or Britons, the earthquake takes its toll on all of them.

And then, as suddenly as it started, it stops.

The noise, the thumping movements, the terror... gone in the wind, as if it never happens.

The cracked earth rapidly closes itself. The felled trees snaps back into position. The pools of water are sucked right back to where they belong.

It's as if he's witnessing a scene of reversed time.

He has seen his fair share of odd events, but never one this grand and peculiar at the same time. However, before he can ponder the cause of the event, a hard hit to the side of his head separates him from his consciousness.

In hindsight, earthquake or not, he'll encounter the same fate anyway.

* * *

"Ugh... agh..."

Filvis puts some strength into her weak arms, but the constant ringing in her head keeps interferring at the right moment, when her face will slam back into the ground.

\- Static.

She feels sick. The pain in her head is different from the usual headache. Instead of the dull pounding of the temples or the crown, it feels like her brain is being scooped out with a teaspoon gingerly, one step at a time. The frightening sense of losing a part of her body envelops her, and makes the pain even more severe. She tries to bite her lips to stiffle the pain, but she can't even taste her own blood right now.

She knows that her enemies has already composed themselves, and seeking her death. She has managed to put them on the rops before the earthquake happens, but the chance to finish them off is gone the moment the earth shatters.

It's not because she hit her head. No, because a simple loss of her footing will never bring her to the ground this forcefully.

When the earth rips open, it feels like she herself is having the same fate.

Gaia is hurt. Her elven blood screams alongside it.

She, the outcast, is ironically perhaps the person who suffers the most from it. The elves' domain is part of Gaia, and they themselves possess a connection to it not too dissimilar to Spirits. Of course, they have their own sense of values and powers separate from Gaia's own, but this tether also empowers them, allowing elves to wield powers way beyond their opponents.

The domain, other than deterring invaders, also serve as a filter to block out unwanted interference from Gaia. In the past, where it didn't exist, many elves were taken control forcefully by the surrounding spirits in the events of emergency. The 'emergency' status is determine wholly by Gaia itself, sometimes leading to the unwanted and unnecessary demise of a number of elves. After that, they created a barrier around their domain to prevent such eventuality again. They are more than willing to help Gaia, but certainly not to the expense of their own people.

A memory flashes in her mind as a blur of magic energy hurls itself at her body.

She sees a pair of soft, fair tiny hands. Her own, reaching outwards to grasp an intangible object. Beyond it, lean and tall figures of those who she should be familiar with, but she can't recall her faces. The feeling of forcefully dragged away combines with the impact from the magic energy, sending her tumbling a few times to the side. The pain is minimal, compared to her head splitting open and torched body, but the feeling of dread... the one when someone is _this_ close to death still occupies a small corner in her mind.

She wishes to die, just to end the pain right here, right now.

Her body can't even dodge it anyway, with all this pain immobilizing her, so why bother?

She slackens her body, preparing for the eventuality.

She waits.

And waits.

And waits.

...

However, nothing comes.

The pain is gone, as suddenly as it ripped through her body.

Her lungs expands with relief, as she desperately gulps down the air around her to make up for all that time spent exhaling it while screaming. The activity causes her throat to constrict and choke, and before long, the bile in her stomach has made its way out of her mouth, emptying its contents to the ground. The fact that she no longer feels the pain gives her gratitude, but the current vertigo she's experiencing as the backlash from the agony is certainly unpleasant.

After she recollects herself a bit better, she starts to notice an abnormality.

' _Why is it so quiet?'_

She cracks open her eyes gently, as if afraid of the answer.

Indeed, what greets her is a scene of catastrophe.

The earth around her forms craters of hardened black glass, and the smell of burnt flesh assaults her nose, causing her to retch once more. Some remains of the battle still exist, in the form of pieces of foot tumbling down the crater where she's at, with no sign of the upper body.

A gentle hand lifts her up to her feet.

She looks up, and stares straight at Shirou's brown eyes.

If she's in any form of lucidness right now, she might have repulsed him in anger for touching her and standing so close to her. He's crossed the line once, and twice is just over the limit. However, she has no strength left to do so, and meekly settles to be carried away from the battlefield like some lowly, incompetent soldier.

She'll be mad at herself once she's healed, but for now, any place rather than here will do her good.

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **K**

 **Knight Arms  
A series of ****weapons crafted specially from Heroic Vessels' flesh and soul. Upon completion of their creation, every Heroic Vessel is required to craft one, creating an equipment unique to each and every one of them, with varying powers and effects depending on the Heroic Vessel's personality. It's said only another Knight Arms can resist or nullify the effect of one, though Alaya paid careful attention to avoid any single Knight Arms to become more powerful than the other.  
**

 **S**

 **Slash Emperor  
Rank: EX  
Type: Anti-World  
Range: ?  
Max. Targets: ?  
**

 **A artificial Noble Phantasm and a member of the series 'Knight Arms', weapons crafted specially from Heroic Vessels' flesh and soul.**

 **For Heroic Vessel SHIROU, it's less of a sword and more of an embodiment of his ideal: to pretect and preserve humanity. However, despite his wish, the sword will still consume a large amount of Gaia's life force upon activation. Its power and range depends on the opponent it's used on and the size of Gaia's body used as fuel. Anything on its path will be forcefully imprinted by the concept of 'Sword', symbolizing death and destruction, and thus annihilating them. Defense against the strike is impossible unless faced with a stronger concept, of which there are none.**


	18. Bed Talks

**Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone!**

 **Now, straight to the Nasuverse stuff: the new FGO movie is... _crap._ It's more in the direction of the old Tsukihime anime than the new UBW anime, if you guys know what I'm talking about. I hope the production team will cover all of the game's 7 stages, to make a complete 8-movie series, but I don't know if I can handle the wait...**

 **Yup, still waiting on that Heaven's Feel movie, Nasu...**

 **Then, amongst all the partying and happiness I did the last couple of weeks (which is why this story has been left unattended), I grow increasingly frustrated at the lack of official translation (or the lateness of it) of various Nasuverse stuff. Here I am, already primed and ready to launch several stories as a Christmas present to you all, then I'm stuck with changing details to make it truer to canon. So, blame them for you not getting a triple release... Fufufu...**

 **That said, what a paradoxical 2016 we have! Great achievements by humanity is balanced out by the worst stories of terror... and I'm not only talking about ISIS and other terrorist groups. Well, I'm not one to judge far into the future, so let's wait and see. Hopefully, you all have a great 2016 as well!**

 **On a side note, do you guys want me to set up a forum for you to discuss where the story (and its next installments) should go? Like I said in the first chapters, I want to make this into a multi-plane, multi-fandom, multi-historical series, and even though I already planned for the next five stories, I want to hear your suggestions as well, not just on the plot side, but also the protagonists I can use. So, let's hear it out: forum or no forum?**

 **Now, enjoy, read, review, follow, and favorite!**

 **Disclaimer: Mashu is really cute in the anime... and the rest of them is terrible, Nasu. Fix it. Get Ufotable with its Unlimited Budget Works to make it a 60 fps anime!**

* * *

' _This feeling...'_

Halting Gáe Bolg, Scáthach snaps her head towards the sky.

Normally, activating Gáe Bolg's true ability won't allow its user to cancel its movements after chanting out its true name. However, she merely lets out a fraction of it, possible for being its original owner and because she didn't use any incantation to activate it. Using its full might on a half-dead girl is far too overkill for her tastes.

The sensation she felt just now is... familiar, somehow. Something she experienced far back in time, long before this era even started. Something that feels like a tune she can't get out of her head, but instantly recognizable nonetheless.

Regardless, it's far more interesting to investigate its origins rather than finishing off this... What's her name again? Cecilia, is it? Being cooped up in her own domain for several centuries can be a _tad_ boring, and she continuously seeks whatever entertainment she can use to pass the time.

Until the end of the world...

With a quickness far surpassing the mortal realm, she bends her body backwards. From that position, she kicks the ground, sending her body flying backwards to avoid the follow-up swing. The inhuman physical ability is clearly on display, since a mortal set of joints would've snapped with the exertion. For her, it's as easy as walking in a park.

Gazing at her new opponent, she can't help but be mesmerized.

In her lifetime, until now, she has seen many cases and objects of splendor, of riches beyond any human's scope of imagination. She has witnessed many beautiful scenes of nature unfolding before her, some to her tastes, some not, but they're all bewitchingly pretty nonetheless. The people living in her original time were the embodiment of perfection; fine, chiseled men and soft, delicate women mingle freely and equally.

Yet, they all pale before this woman's astonishing beauty.

Bright, blonde hair spun from gold itself. Shining green eyes overwhelming the radiance of the best jades and emeralds. Fair skin softer than any silk sheets. Slim, taut muscles forming a body most Gods would fall in love with. Regal, yet warm features frame her delicate face and nose.

To put it shortly, this woman is the manifestation of Scáthach's fantasy.

And that lovely face is glaring at her with killing intent strong enough to paralyze a dragon.

' _Perfect.'_

Barely, just barely, she is able to contain herself from drooling. It's bad form in the battlefield, although behind the scenes, if she can spend some time alone with this girl...

She might be able to die.

The blonde girl sneaks a peek at the other blonde lying behind her, halfway to meeting her own maker. It seems she's worried for Cecilia's conditions, but the worrying gaze instantly turns into pure, unadulterated rage when meeting Scáthach's own.

' _Oh, dear, my body is getting hot...'_

Taking a deep breath to calm herself down, Scáthach smiles at the newcomer. A smile is an essential part of any greeting, after all, and she doesn't want to turn off the woman in front of her. That said, maybe she already has? She's beaten up someone important to the blonde girl, after all.

However, before she can greet her opponent, the blonde speaks up.

"You..." she growls. "What have you done to her?!"

"Ahahaha," Scáthach chuckles, "please, don't take it too seriously. I never intended to take her life anyway, because I'm only fulfilling an annoying debt. I'd like it if there's no bad blood between us, you know, Miss?" Scáthach smiles again, hoping to get into the blonde's good sides. "Since there aren't any in the first place, so I'll go on my way, and you go and help her."

Pointing the tip of Gáe Bolg at the bleeding woman on the ground, she quips, "It seems she won't have long."

The petite blonde unsheathes her sword, a beautiful mix of silver and vermilion colors.

"You're right," she says. "This will take even shorter than that."

The figure which stood a good several tens of feet from Scáthach suddenly enlarges.

No, she doesn't grow in size. It's merely the change in perspective, caused by sudden acceleration so fast Scáthach can't even pick up its starting motion.

Her long-honed instincts easily parries the heavy blow aside with the blood-red spear. However, she's surprised by the relative unresponsiveness of her arm after taking that blow, erasing her chance of an immediate counterattack using her spear. Instead, she unleashes a palm strike towards the swordswoman's elbow before she can change position, rotating the blonde away from her center of gravity and giving Scáthach some space.

Yes, her suspicion is correct. Her spear-arm is now numb, though not permanent. It speaks volumes about the strength in those thin arms, being able to do this to her undead divine body.

Without pause, the swordswoman absorbs the given momentum and uses it to launch herself at Scáthach even quicker. The technique causes a rise on Scáthach's eyebrow, for she has never seen one before, but any observations will have to be made on the fly. She's sure her opponent won't give her any space to even breathe properly, with how strong the blonde's killing intent is permeating her swings.

Having taken a split second to refocus herself, Scáthach begins to unravel this swordswoman's swordsmanship.

The attack now comes from down low, aiming diagonally upwards using the momentum she has given her opponent with the previos palm strike. She rotates her spear in front of her body, creating a short rotation to parry the blow upwards. However, instead of having her guard broken, the blonde simply jumps alongside the parry, twisting her body mid-air even faster with the follow-up attack, this time with a monstrous thrust to the witch's throat.

Scáthach continues her rotation while tilting her body sideways and lightly shifts the thrust to one side, but she immediately brings the butt of her spear upwards to guard her flank, as the parry instantly rotates the petite blonde and allows her to launch a reverse roundhouse kick at Scáthach's gut. The blow should've knocked both of them in opposite directions, but the swordswoman expertly softens her strength and uses the block as a stepping stone, launching a downwards strike at Scáthach's collarbone.

Instead of taking the blows like previously, the undead woman jumps backwards, planning to let her opponent's own attack to destabilize her own guard. The swing is indeed done with a huge motion, and it drags the beautiful sword smashing to the ground. However, as soon as Scáthach moves forward to counter and take advantage, the hammering strike instead turns into a spring, bouncing off the earth and snaking its way to her calf. Scáthach lightly jumps and thrusts down, keen to regain the initiative, but she misses, the rebound of the swordswoman's attack much faster than she predicted and launching the blonde forward.

In the corner of her eye, she sees the blonde swordswoman digs the tip of her sword to the earth right after she clears Scáthach's spear. Flipping backwards, the steel boots crushes the ground right underneath her, launching her towards the spear wielder once again.

The salvo begins anew. The sword comes from multiple directions, with speed and angle Scáthach isn't used to, much less has faced. The blonde's ability to seemingly channel any sort of momentum change towards her body into a flowing counterattack is frustrating to fight, since Scáthach now has to resort to dodging and keeping the blonde in check with the length of her spear. It's not as if her lethality reduces with distance, but Gáe Bolg's movements grow wider and wider with every exchange, and her arms number and number. The constant rotation and full-body strikes are certainly taking a toll on Scáthach ability to formulate a defense strategy, and she's hoping that the high-energy technique will soon wear its wielder down.

She has no desire to fight with her full strength, at least initially, because her undead body will continuously resurrect even if she slips up. But now, the rain of sword strikes flames her apetite for combat more and more, further enticing her to the swordswoman's beauty and grace. Well, 'grace' is a broad term, but her opponent is moving with the elegance of those gigantic mythical beings, those she has encountered early in her lifetime. It's full of strange and illogical movements, but still breathtaking to watch nonetheless.

' _Well, it's time to wrap this up.'_

Scáthach is mentally crossing her fingers that her opponent doesn't die from this.

Instead of a minute dodge like before, Scáthach jumps with all her strength, avoiding a sideway swing which could cleave her body in half if it connects. Of course, the momentum of the swing is immediately converted into a vertical jumping motion, but the split second head start Scáthach has is enough.

Gáe Bolg explodes with a horrifying red light.

She bends her back, taking the pose of a javelin thrower, and snaps it down towards the oncoming assault.

Those jade eyes widen, a sliver of panic crossing through them.

"Gáe Bolg!"

The ground beneath her disappears altogether.

* * *

"Ugh!"

"Your Highness!" Several voices exclaims in worry.

Altria puts her hand forward to halt her fall, but Merlin's quick reactions has already eliminates the gravity taking hold of her body, levitating her back into a standing position.

He eyes her with a questioning gaze.

"You okay?"

"Yes," she gasps. "Just... a headache, that's all."

Most of them present know this is merely a facade, but play along with it anyway.

The battle is going exceedingly well. Aside from Lancelot's sudden appearance, her command and the army meld together with a precise harmony, grinding away at the enemy formation quickly. Those that she can't handle from the back row are being dealt with the individual knight units specializing in those sort of jobs, led by several Knights of the Round Table.

However, just now, her head throbbed painfully, like someone has just bludgeoned her from the inside.

She's not unfamiliar with the sensation. She trusts her Instincts very much, and if it reacts this violently, then something bad is happening, or has just happened to someone close to her.

She prays in her heart it's not the one she's been constantly thinking about these last few days.

"Merlin, where did Mordred and Lancelot go?"

"Hm? Them?" Merlin asks. "I'm not sure... I'm too focused here, but I think they're nearing Gawain's position the last time I checked. Why?"

She purses her lips together.

"I have a bad feeling. Call back Bedivere, and take command here to replace me."

Merlin is flabbergasted.

"You're not thinking of going yourself, are you? You, the king? When will you grow up, Altria?"

"It is not the matter of rashness or not!" She argues, "This is... something only I must do."

"How many times have you used that as an excuse?" Merlin responds. "Well, you're as hardheaded as your old man, I guess. Nothing I can do to stop you once you've got an idea in your head."

He pats her back, saying, "Fine, just go. I'll take care of things here."

Altria smiles gratefully. "Thank you, Merlin."

"Go, before I change my mind for fear of Gwen castrating me."

She rushes off with a feeling of trepidation.

Expelling Prana Burst liberally, she runs towards Gawain's location faster than any war horse. The sound of wind whistling in the air and messing her hair is ignored, while the surprised enemies and allies she passed on the battlefield is spared. All she's focusing is the thought continuously ringing inside her head, and her own pounding heartbeat under her chest armor.

' _Please, do not let it be you...'_

Personally, she doesn't understand why she's so worked up on this matter. There were more worrisome matters she has handled in the past, some successfully, some by a hair's breadth of luck, but she has never felt this nervous before. To put it objectively, excessively worrying about someone she just met for a few days, let alone know well, is a very rash decision, one unbefitting for a king. Maybe it's the fact Mordred is her own flesh and blood, however twisted the definition, or maybe it's her own guilt pressuring her to act. In any case, her usual cool and calm mind when judging matters of state has suddenly disappeared into thin air, replaced by a raging storm of emotion.

A few minutes later, she slams her heel to the ground as she nearly collided with the Sun Knight.

"Y-Your Majesty!" Gawain nearly shouts in surprise.

"Status report, please, Gawain," she says calmly, not caring about his ragged appearance.

He straightens up, before explaining, "The mission is going well, until a big explosion in the eastern side takes quite a few of our number, including Miss Cecilia."

At the mention of Mordred's student, Altria's heart begins to sink.

"Currently, we have no methods of confirming their survival, since an impenetrable barrier has been erected there. I suspect it's the work of a powerful magus or magic user, perhaps on the level of Lord Merlin, since I've never seen something this complex or powerfu- Oh!"

Both their heads snap at the direction of Gawain's gaze, where the scenery suddenly cracks and breaks like glass.

Before she realizes it, her feet are already flying towards that place.

Crimson light explodes in front of her, sending her flying back a few hundred feet.

Her head spins, her ears ring, and her body tumbles. Yet, she can still catch a familiar red color shooting up in the air, from a body floating at least 50 feet above the ground.

The droplets of blood behaves strangely slowly. It floats, and the droplets form perfect spheres as if unaffected by gravity, unlike a normal blood spray pattern. As quick as the crimson light shone before, the blood vanishes, along with the body into thin air. As she looks closer, the ground where the explosion happens has nothing left on it, not even the ground itself, having caved in to form a gigantic crater reaching nearly to her own position.

Her back shivers at the thought of being caught in its range.

Exerting a little more strength to her arms, she lifts herself and starts to investigate carefully. There's no telling whether that foreign flier has laid a few more surprises or not, and even if her mind yelling at her to hurry to erase her worry, well-trained habits kick in and lead her to walk far slower than she would've liked.

The sound of gravel crunched under a pair of metal boots catch her attention.

The crater is quite deep, and from her position, it's difficult to see if there's someone walking up the slope towards her level. Being cautious, she stops and raises her guard, but her hand still isn't reaching towards Excalibur's pommel.

She involuntarily exhales a sigh of relief when a familiar golden hair comes into view.

However, what she's not prepared for is the closing speed of Mordred, almost like a human bullet rushing to slam into Altria's body. Her reaction speed is slightly dulled by the momentary relaxation of her muscles, and a collision looks to be unavoidable. Fortunately, her daughter slids into a stop, panting and speaking with determined eyes.

"Father," she rasps, "where's Merlin?"

Altria's eyes are drawn downwards at the unconscious and bloodied young woman held inside Mordred's arms. In a glance, she understands what must be done, and her kingly persona swiftly takes action.

"He is back in our base camp. The treatment room is slightly to the back, so please take Miss Cecilia there. I shall contact Merlin right now."

Mordred surprises her by shaking her head.

"No need. I'll go there myself."

Altria gives her a puzzled look. "Mordred, it's quite far, so how-"

Before she can finish, a sonic boom explodes in front of her, courtesy of Mordred's Prana Burst.

It's quite a rare situation when she's disrespected so thoroughly. She's used to be listened to attentively, being a king and all, and almost no one has interrupted her speech by running away on their own. Well, Merlin often does that, just to annoy her, but he doesn't count. Mordred's eyes clearly convey one thing: Cecilia is far more important to her than Altria's speech.

Her shoulders shake, and a moment later, she breaks out into laughter.

In her head, she plays back the scene of her rushing here herself, on foot, just to reach Mordred. And now, her own daughter has just done the exact same thing.

Oh, the irony.

* * *

The bright beam of the sun stings Filvis's eyes, forcing her to break her slumber.

The dull headache still persists, though a shadow of yesterday's head-splitting pain. Immediately, she assesses her surroundings, determining she's located inside one of the private treatment rooms, usually reserved for high-ranking officials. Well, it's 'private' in name only, in a sense that it contains only herself. In terms of furnitures, it's not that much different from the normal barracks, since they can't afford to waste luxuries in the battlefield.

Even so, she appreciates the peace solitude brings her.

She starts to play with her own breathing, drawing strength from Gaia to enhance her recovery. It seems her injuries aren't that severe, with only a few potshots at the end of the battle when she's down leaving a few marks. The familiar flow of magic energy seeping through her skin feels like a refreshing bath of cool water, reminding her of the beautiful natural scenery of her hometown.

' _I've been gone for so long...'_

The tears she has has long been dried in reminiscing of this subject. All that remains is a hollow longing for the place she won't ever set foot again, being a half-elf. It's fortunate her abilities hasn't been culled when she's exiled, but on certain occasions such as this, she's contemplating whether it's a fair trade for going home.

Before she can think further, the tent flap opens softly, and a familiar sound of steps enters. It's familiar to her for being too unique, so unlike anyone she's ever met. Her race has naturally high level of hearing, and enhanced with the traditional security spells ingrained into her body, she can clearly identify anyone by the difference in their boimetrics through her ears and skin, manifesting as sounds and palpable feel.

The spiky red hair comes into her field of view, and a delicious smell wafts from the tray Shirou's carrying.

Having not eaten for almost a full day, she expects her stomach to be grumbling embarassingly loud, but a slight nausea suddenly grabs hold of her throat. It seems he notices this as well, and puts down the scintilating array of food farther away.

His heartbeat and footsteps are as silent as ever.

To break the silence, she chooses to be on the attack.

"Since when did you apply for the maid position?"

"Just now," he coolly answers.

She narrows her eyes. She wants her tone to be more spiteful, but her body just doesn't have the energy for it.

"For me alone? Your simple-minded strength can be of use anywhere else, I don't need you."

Ignoring the barb, he replies, "No, I come here to apologize."

She tries to raise her body. Several stabs of pain wrecks through her, but she rejects his help and manages it herself. After positioning the pillow on her back, she glares at him, "There's nothing you can do to apologize, so keep it. We're both completely incompatible existences, after all, and nothing we can say or do will change that. You draw your strength in Gaia's expense, while I do so by putting humans in danger."

"Still, that's no excuse," he argues. "I will never do anything to hurt you, whether you're an elf or not."

At the sincere apology, she huffs to the side to hide her reddening ears. "That attitude will only cause trouble for both of us, so stop it, Vessel."

"Oh? We're back to that level again, Miss Outcast?"

She whips her neck back into his direction, and locks her eyes with him, challenging him for supremacy.

However, she can't keep her lips from thinning out into a smile, and so does he. Moments later, both of them chuckle at the same time, but it's cut short by her wincing and holding her chest in slight agony.

"No, I'm fine," she gasps out. "Just a bit of backlash."

He moves his seat closer. "See? That's what I'm apologizing for. After being so cocky in the strategy meeting, I can't finish up my own deal in the end, so I'm being wrecked with guilt right now. Tolerate me a little bit more, will you?"

She smiles. "You're unexpectedly soft, aren't you?"

"I got that a lot."

"I'm sure you are."

She gestures for the food tray, her body feeling a little more refreshed. He obliges, handing her the meal, traces of their former enmity coming down, if not disappearing completely.

"Come to think of it, why didn't you put on your mask?" Shirou asks. "You usually don't like other people seeing you, correct?"

"No, it's too much of a hassle," she replies. "I use illusions to trick them, since there's not many who's been through that door. Even when I'm unconscious, it should still work. Come to think of it, it doesn't do much to you, does it?"

He shakes his head, smiling. "I have good eyes, so no."

The humanoid situation is quite precarious in the Kingdom ever since they co-habitate with normal humans. In some places, they're regarded as a respected race, and given several social advantages. In others, they're treated as monsters, hunted down and looked in disgust. There are also cases where the humanoids, such as some tribes of elves and spirits, enslave and consume humans. It's understandable that Filvis chooses not to aggravate this situation by taking advantage of Merlin's uniform.

She hugs herself, a shiver across her back. "Yes, they're very disgusting. It feels like I'm being stripped naked by you every time, so get out after you're done."

Despite all that soft talk, she's not going to let him get away without another attack.

This time, he has no sarcastic remarks to retort.

* * *

A female voice greets Lancelot as he steps into an underground chamber.

"Fufufu... you sure are quite roughed up, my boy."

As if on cue, his jet-black armor shatters into millions of pieces, clattering on the floor. The body it protected just now collapses like a puppet which has its strings cut. The stench of burnt flesh and fresh, flowing blood fills the room, enticing Nimue's appetite.

A wave of her hand lifts the unconscious body to the air, before it's enveloped with a thick blue gel, forming an aquamarine egg under the artificial lighting. A snap of her fingers dissolves the pieces of armor into black ink, before the shadows swallow them.

She sighs in disappointment, her expression turning 180° from before.

To be fair, the war isn't a complete loss from her side. She realizes she put her chips too much on several wild cards, with big personalities she can't minutely control to the finest detail. The ones she can't control turns out to be facing some of the main contestants she's worried about, with mixed results.

She's hoping Galehaut and Scáthach can at least injure the Heroic Vessel and the homunculus, but she underestimated their strength. She's not really pinning her opes on the currently incapacitated knight, because he's far too emotional for her liking. As it turns out, sending him against Altria Pendragon is a futile effort, given how tightly she's guarded, even with the enchantments of the armor and Arondight.

No, instead of wild cards, in hindsight, she has been foiled by the efforts invested many years ago by SHIROU.

Both the homunculus and her student has been trained far better than her expectations. The student's death will cause an emotional upheaval for the homunculus, and perhaps even SHIROU himself. An emotional opponent is an easily tricked one, but Scáthach played with her too long and neglects to use her beloved spear to finish the job. Granted, Nimue has an inkling the witch may end up doing just that, playing with her opponent just because practically no human can match herself.

It irks Nimue about how she's falling behind her sister, and how she seems to be gaining momentum ever since that Heroic Vessel shows up. Fundementally, she understands that everything in this world will eventually balance itself, as how her success in recruiting Lancelot, Galehaut, and Scáthach will be met with equal force from the other side. It's a game of constant shifts, and it has been the same for centuries in the past.

However, now that SHIROU is here, that can change rapidly.

To her understanding, the Heroic Vessel system is granted the ability to rip that balance off the scale and enforce a result, seemingly without any other interventions. Alaya chooses humans with that kind of attribute right from the start, and enhances that game-breaking capabilities. Indeed, the name 'Heroic Vessel' certainly suits the program, where the surviving and successfully created Vessels are the ones who has the 'protagonist'-like capabilities of legends and stories in the past.

It's so corny that she's almost terrified by it.

She takes solace in the fact he can't move rashly against her, at least for now. Yes, he can potentially end her without creating a lasting damage on the World, but certainly not in one day. Like her, he has to move delicately, slowly cornering his opponent like chess to create the perfect checkmate. With a personality like his, he's probably going to gun for a perfect winning move: where all his pieces are still on the board and the opponent's are not.

Difficult, yes, but not impossible. It's precisely this kind of tasks he's being deployed for.

Of course, she's not going to take it in without doing anything. Now that the first battle phase is over, what can she do to improve her chances for the next one? What's the next move that can reduce his advantage? All this must be analyzed calmly to produce the optimum effect.

That said, the foundations for the next phase has already been completed. It's only the matter of implementing her plans perfectly, and predict SHIROU's moves.

She smiles, despite her mood being rather glum.

"Isn't that right, my dear Queen?"

The female body floating inside a cylinder doesn't respond.

* * *

Cecilia is floating inside an infinite darkness.

Immediately, her mind responds back to action, and starts to analyze her surroundings. It's a good thing this is a familiar experience, the out-of-body one, where she can't physically move but able to think clearly. Many times, when she's far too tired after being tortured to exhaution by an act Master Mordred calls 'training', she spends her mornings feeling like this.

The first thing she usually does is to recall exactly what brings her here. In this land of lucid dreams, sometimes recollection is hard to come by, but slowly tracking her actions in the previous day is effective.

' _Let's see... I was fighting the Picts, and then... an explosion...'_

She recalls her exploits some time ago, the exact hours and minutes slipping through her mind. In any case, before her body actually responds, she won't be able to tell the time anyway. It can be mere hours, or days, or even...

' _D-Don't tell me... I'm already dead?!'_

She hurriedly calms herself down. If she's really dead, then there's no need to even panic. People die when they get killed, after all, so she has all the time in the world to think.

The images has started to come back from her battles. She recalls slicing and dicing through the ragged defenses of the Picts' rear flank, and then being blown into a huge crater afterwards. The fight with Scáthach ends... _less_ well, with her unable to put even a scratch on the demi-goddess. It's perhaps the most humiliating experience she has ever... well, experienced, being so thoroughly outclassed and shown so clearly.

She knows she's strong, much more than the average soldier. But Scáthach, Master Mordred, and Grandmaster... she realizes how far the realm they live in, unreachable by her feeble hands. It's frustrating, to be shown a goal she will never reach no matter how hard she tries, simply because she wasn't born to achieve that. Yet, the sense of defeat is minimal now, maybe because all she feels is relief.

Now, she doesn't have to do anything anymore. No regrets, no things left to do. She feels she has maximized her abilities at that point. There's always a possibility of improving, but in that battle, she laid everything she has on her sword. She failed, but not for lack of effort. Scáthach was simply too mighty, and she too weak. That's all there is to it.

Frustrating, yes, but not regretful.

Now, all she can do is wait for the tunnel of light to take her somewhere else. She's not particularly religious, but she does hope she'll end up someplace nice, preferably without any more pain. If she's not dead, then she's hoping to wake up in a nice, warm bed, maybe inside a luxurious treatment chamber with Grandmaster Shirou serving all her needs...

' _No, no, that's way too greedy...'_

Or, maybe she can get reincarnated?! There's a religion from the Far East which claims she can do just that if her deeds in this world is good enough. If it happens, maybe she can now live as royalty, without suffering or stale bread or a ravenous teacher who keeps on gobbling down her share of food...

' _Ah, there it is!'_

From her previous out-of-body experiences, she doesn't really have to do anything to reach the sudden burst of light, for the distance she's seeing is a mere illusion, like everything is in this world. However, her impatience gets the better of her, and she starts to struggle to move in that general direction. Movement, thoughts, mantra... she tries anything at her disposal to reach it even a sliver of a second faster.

Suddenly, her stomach starts to float upwards, like the sensation she haD when her master threw her off a cliff in the name of 'training'.

Of course, the 'dropping sensation' is a regular occurence to any humans. It's a simple trick of the mind, during the moment when the brain transitions between stages of sleep and influences a person's virtual sense of balance. To Cecilia, it signals her success, and she can feel the weight of her body now, unlike before.

She feels the dirt gathered in her eyes, making it a bit difficult to open them. Her hands feel heavy, with one of them being completely restrained, but she immediately recognizes it to be the one smashed to pieces in her earlier battle. Gingerly, she moves her free arm to rub the dirt out of her eyes, revealing an artificially-lit ceiling stinging her eyes.

Having been asleep for so long, she tries to adjust feebly to the rather strong light. In her struggles, a short blink catches an image which causes her a major concern.

Master Mordred is sleeping soundly beside her, lying in a comfortable reclining chair.

Her throat is parched, so she decides against calling out and waking the tired girl. There's a glass of water on the tray hanging out of the side of her bed, so she carefully exerts strength in her fingers to test whether they're strong enough to lift a glass to her mouth. Having confirmed it, she slowly gulps down the refreshing water.

It's by then she just realizes how alert she is. Normally, these periods of unconsciousness always makes her groggy when she wakes up, similar to that moment when she accidentally drank too much wine and had a massive headache the next day. However, everything seems and sounds so clear to her, at least for the moment, because she can almost here the snores of the other men from the tents several paces from her own.

' _Strange...'_

She takes a deep breath, trying to make sense of it all. The information she's processing through her senses is clearly far more than before. The slither of grass snakes in the bushes outside sounds as clear as if it's circling her own neck. The soft murmur of the guards conversing near the camp fence are as loud as a normal conversation. Master Mordred's cute nose and lips's movements are amazingly detailed and slow-moving, and her calm heartbeat also relaxes Cecilia.

Those thin, golden eyelashes flutter open, and the familiar jade-green eyes stares right at her.

Mordred's cheek slackens, and she instantly leaps at Cecilia, though mindful of her injuries.

With the petite swordswoman's head in her bosom, Cecilia jests, "Geez, what will everyone think of they see you like this, Master?"

"I-I'm not crying, so it's fine!" Her muffled voice, slightly stammered, protests back.

She uses her free hand to stroke Mordred's hair, but stops when her master begins to speak.

"Cecilia, this is all my fault, I'm sorry-"

"Master!" She barks, separating their bodies. "How many times did I tell you this is my own choice? You don't have any right do apologize, so don't!"

"But that doesn't change the fact it's true," Mordred dejectedly replies. "I... Shirou always says to me that I'm responsible for the strength I possess, to use it for other people's sake. But back then... I can't protect you..."

Looking at her master's depressed face, Cecilia realizes this is just going to be an all-out argument of they both continue, so she sighs as a sign of finality. "Hah... fine, Master. Apology accepted, so please raise your head."

Mordred smiles in return, though the cheerfulness still hasn't returned to her eyes.

"Yeah... good."

The motion shows something which attracts Cecilia's eyes.

"Master, are you injured? Your right hand is..."

Mordred tentatively rubbed the offending limb, nodding slowly.

"Don't you worry. This is... just a missed swing, that's all," she chuckles in defeat. "I panicked, and let loose a wild slash which taxed my body a bit more."

Cecilia exhales a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness... I thought we'll need to amputate it..."

Mordred's eyes twitch. "You shut up."

Cecilia giggles, while her master lightly glares at her.

Realizing something, Cecilia worriedly asks, "Umm... Master... what about... _that_?"

"About what?" Mordred asks back in return, confused.

"Err... I mean... the stuff in your stomach?"

"Well, I haven't eaten yet, if that's what you're asking."

"No! Not that!" Cecilia exclaims, then looks down onto the bedsheets while twiddling her fingers. "Your... baby? How is it?"

Mordred looks at her student with a gaze she uses to look at crazy people.

"Eh? How... did you assume I was pregnant? Did you knock your head somewhere?"

"B-But... back then when we separated from Grandmaster Shirou... What was that about?"

"Hm? Oh, _that_!" Laughing, Mordred pats her student's shoulder, grinning. "You're such an innocent girl, Cecilia. It's just an expression for sex, _sex_! Doesn't mean I have to get pregnant by it, no? Besides, my body can't do that, so that's one less thing I have to worry about!"

Realizing her blunder, Ceclia stammers, "I'm sorry, Master... I didn't know...!"

"No, no, it's fine. I accepted it long ago. I mean... Mother never made me to be a woman, you know? Just the fact I was able to give Shirou pleasure is enough for me."

Mordred leans back into her chair, making it creak.

Whistling joyfully, she says, "But hearing the report of your progress from the guys fighting alongside you was nice too. I'm proud of you, Mordred."

Cecilia blushes prettily, meekly saying, "It's all due to your and Grandmaster's training, and new equipments. I don't deserve any of that praise, because everyone else can do the same if given the same chance."

"But they didn't, did they? Not everyone has the exact same chance," Mordred patiently argues. "You've maximized what you've learned, and the tools given to you. That's good enough for me."

Standing up, she lays out her palm for Cecilia to take.

"Now, let's get something to eat, shall we? Your body should be fully healed by now."

Cecilia chuckles. "Are you hungry, Master?"

"Aren't I always?"

Both of them laugh freely, before heading out to the main mess hall gingerly, following Cecilia's own pace.


	19. Dangerous Relationships

**Haaahhh...**

 **Well, starting off with a rather more sombre note, I'm disappointed somewhat in my own following of the Nasuverse. I didn't play F/GO enough in English, and guess what? All the Knights of the Round Table revealed in the Londinium arc are completely different in personality and appearance than what I planned. Of course, I'd do my best to accommodate the new information into the story, but some things just are too difficult to change. So, from now on, if my writing and interpretation is inaccurate to Nasu's intentions, please excuse me.**

 **That said, this bad feeling is overwhelmed by the amount of love you guys poured onto the last chapter. As always, but let's not make this a mere formality, I thank you for the support, reviews, favorites, and follows. You guys are amazing!I hope you will grace this chapter with even more affection!**

 **Ah, since I won't be uploading near Chinese New Year, then let me say this in advance: Happy Chinese New Year for all who's celebrating it! Instead of hongbao, send me anything unique from the internet you think this story deserves! Gong xi fa cai!**

 **Now, enjoy...**

 **Disclaimer: Really? 19 chapters in and I still have to do this?!**

* * *

The victory celebration inside Camelot is somewhat muted.

Both sides have just returned from their battlefield victorious. It's not just a slim victory, or an intense death match where the last man standing brings home the enemy's flag. The Briton's forces are organized, calm, and skilled, all able to defeat the invaders with minimal casualties. Of course, _any_ casualties at all can be a sticking point for the families left behind, but the King's rudimentary welfare program should take care of it.

However, with their main castle breached and sullied, no one is in any mood to celebrate.

Altria arrived back to find out the entire support battalion of guards, maids, and caretakers slaughtered without mercy.

And now, the remaining forces gather around the Round Table, immediately discussing their next plans without rest.

The air in the room is extremely heavy, enough to send the attending squires and new guards into cold sweat. The people sitting around the Round Table all have a domineering atmosphere on their own, so the combined effect of having them all in the same room is daunting. Their faces are all tense and serious, the joy of victory having been all but wiped out the moment they set foot in the castle.

In all honesty, they're all angry because of their own pride. Camelot, the symbol of King Arthur's reign and power, has been taken over in one night just by an unknown assailant, the deed apparently done without much resistance. The castle which boasts the tightest security in the land... gone, just like that, at the speed of a child's whim.

They feel as if each of their own face has just been slapped. The greatest force on the land, perhaps on the continent, tricked in one night without being able to do anything. After analyzing everything, it has been determined this isn't the culprit's original goal, merely a failsafe in case they were victorious. An attack direct to the heart of the Kingdom, exactly at the moment when nearly all of Briton's military force was buoyed by the battle...

Well, almost all of them feel the same way, except one.

Regardless of that, none of them can spare any energy to chastise the newest member of the Round Table, Mordred.

If they has any objective reasoning remaining, perhaps they'd understand her aloofness. This isn't her home, and if anyone knows her past, this place should've been a source of hatred for her. The deceased were all strangers to her, having never even visited the nearby area, therefore, her personal connections to this place has been minimal, at best. Her student, and now assistant, who's been standing guard behind her, also shares the same amount of empathy. For all they know, they're the ones inside a foreign land, not knowing anyone here as closely as they would've liked.

At the very least, both of them have the decency to not look stupid. Still, their relaxed body language and neutral expression are a stark contrast to everyone else in the room.

Other than the carnage, the people directly involved as victims are of the most concern to the Knights.

Vivian and Guinevere are both missing. With all available witness dead, Merlin was forced to use Magecraft to reveal what's left of the evil deeds. With a combination of Divination and Psychometry, he deduced an important and vital information regarding the culprit, causing a shock to all that's present.

An unknown entity has taken over Vivian, and kidnapped the Queen before butchering everyone in her way. There's traces of a battle in the forest near the castle, but it was determined to be the _start_ of the case, not the end point. A body was discovered half-incinerated on the forest floor, which Merlin recognizes as Dame Brusen, Corbenic's court mage. It's assumed she battled with Vivian, when the entity used the opportunity to take control of his favored disciple's body.

Then, having impersonated the most respected individuals in the castle, it simply waltzed in without arousing any suspicion and murdered everyone. The halls were filled with remains of Vivian's trademark Floral Magecraft, something she inherited from Merlin. The Queen's chamber was lacking in body count, leading him to believe she's been kidnapped, not killed outright.

Naturally, his speaking voice is full of remorse and sadness. He's never one to withheld his emotions in front of the masses, but this is the first time the Knights have seen him so emotional about a person. They all have an inkling regarding his relationship with Vivian, but they sense this is also because it's _his_ security system which failed to protect the innocent support troops in the castle.

Finishing his report, he sits back dejectedly.

Altria takes the cue to speak.

"Thank you, Merlin. Now, does anyone have anything to add?" She speaks with urgency, "Please, anything you have heard, seen, or felt could be vital to solving this case. I am sure you all understand, that exempting from our personal feelings in this matter, this is still a problem of national security."

She looks around, but all she sees is the same defeated looks she so hated. Perhaps she's also making such a face, since it certainly feels like it, but she's disappointed in herself she can't even protect the most important woman in her life. She has promised herself she'll personally make Guinevere happier, ever since she's mourning Lancelot's betrayal. Yet, before she can do anything, the chance could be taken away from her forever.

Her green eyes meet with a pair with similar color, and Mordred smiles.

"Ahem."

Heads turn towards Mordred's seat, and she calmly says, "One of the main culprit is known to me. Whether she directly did what we have witnessed, I'm not sure, but it's almost certain this is her doing."

Gawain, shocked by the announcement, asks, "'Her'?"

Mordred nods. "Yes, 'her'. One half of the Lady of the Lake, Nimue."

Collected gasps fill the room, not just from the King and the Knights, but the assistants standing dutifully behind their masters, except for Cecilia. Making sure she has everyone's attention, Mordred continues to speak.

"She's the one my group have been resisting against these last few years. Don't quote me on this, but I'm pretty certain the last war, where the Romans suddenly shows up and pincering us, was probably pulled by the string by her as well." She makes a disgusted face, saying bitterly, "She's manipulative like that. I'm not surprised if she did this as well, though I don't have any concrete proof."

Kay perks up. "' _Your_ ' group?"

She nods. "Yeah, me, Cecilia, and my master."

He leans forward, interested. "So... do we have a chance to get this supposed 'master' of yours to help us? He's stronger than you, right?"

To that question, she simply chuckles, leaving Kay confused.

"Well, I don't know where he is right now. He's probably already on this case, though, so there's no need to fret."

Her face instantly turns darker, glaring at Kay. "Though I don't appreciate you trying to goad me, jerk."

The sound of shifting chainmail rings across the room as Kay's squires position themselves more aggressively. In front of her, though, it's like two pair of toothless kitten trying to intimidate a dragon, so she ignores them and focuses on her adopted uncle, by virtue of her relation with Altria. The retort works well enough, Kay's fist trembling in anger due to being told off by a woman. He knows Altria is one, but since his sister never acts like a woman, somehow he treats her like a man.

A clean, crisp clap breaks their stare-off, courtesy of Altria.

"Merlin, please work with her. It is not much, but it is also a lead. Do not waste any more time."

"Wait, wait," Mordred waves her arms frantically. "I don't get any say in this?"

Altria gestures with her head to inquire the opinion of the other knights. They remain silent, dooming Mordred to her fate.

"It seems it is a unanimous decision."

"Uuu..." she groans, holding her head in her hands. "Why aren't you here, Shirou..."

Cecilia bends down to speak with a small voice, though still audible by everyone in the room. "Master, I'm certain Grandmaster would've urged you to take this as a 'challenge'." Looking up, she sizes up the flamboyant magus. "Although his reputation precedes him."

"What reputation?" Merlin asks, pertrubed by the notion of someone badmouthing him.

"A pervert."

Merlin's denial is drowned by the thunderous laughter of the rest of the Knights, even Kay and Altria. Lamorak is lightly smacking the table, holding his stomach in pain, while Tristan and Gawain give a wry smile. Bedivere tries his utmost not to crack, but his tense cheeks betray his effort.

"I belong to Shirou, okay?! Don't get the wrong ideas, magus!"

"I don't even want to!" Merlin protests, though it falls to deaf ears as Mordred hugs her body.

Really, who's they're going to believe? A beautiful maiden, the _de facto_ Princess of Camelot, or a repeat offender of a sleazy magus? It's just a walkover.

"Ahem."

Immediately, everyone in the room sits and stands back straight again by the voice of their King.

"If you are finished, entertaining as it is to see you on the other end of the barrel once, Merlin... I am afraid we must move on. Time is of the essence."

All of them salutes, Mordred half-heartedly, then rushes off to their assigned duties.

* * *

The weather is uncharacteristically mild for this time of the year. The sun is shining warmly, not the searing heat and humidity some summer days have, but just enough to make it pleasant compared to the recent cold fronts. Nature seems to blossom in days like these, with the forest humming with life and the air fresh with the morning dew. The road is damper than ideal for a comfortable walk, but it's a small price to pay for enjoying this magnificent atmosphere.

Sadly, it's not an atmosphere Filvis can enjoy herself.

"I don't understand why you're still following me," she says to the man walking beside her.

Shirou replies airily, "Well... no particular reasons, really. Just letting my guilt drip away, and soon we'll part ways peacefully."

She sighs.

"I told you, you have nothing to apologize for," she retorts. "If you didn't destroy that floating island, all of us would be dead, including me. So I thank you for that. Satisfied?"

"Finally, you said those words!" Shirou laughs. "Jeez, is it really that hard to thank someone?"

She turns her head away sharply. "I don't know you're so eager for recognition."

"I'm not," he says. "I'm just teasing you, so don't take it too seriously."

"Wha-" Filvis's words are caught in her throat as she blushes all the way to the tip of her ears.

Knowing what will happen soon, Shirou disappears momentarily from her sight. The place he's standing suddenly explodes, a charred ground remaining in place, while he chuckles a few paces away.

"Now, I'll talk 'seriously', if you like it that way."

Filvis calms herself down with great difficulty, and after a few more seconds, barely manages to do so.

"I was being honest when I said I want to wash away my guilt." He looks to the sky, deliberately away from the half-elf's face, or he'll get distracted by her beauty again. "If only I did my job properly and thoroughly, no one was supposed to get hurt. In the end, two did, so I failed."

"You've set your own standards too high."

"Did !?" He wryly smiles. "I like it that way. Keeps it worth chasing after."

At that moment, Filvis is enraptured by the strange face Shirou is making. It's not something she's ever seen before, a mixture of joy, sadness, hope, but also despair... The paradoxes are clearly displayed in his expression, however strange it may be. If she has a word to describe him now, she'll choose 'idealist', but he lacks the innocent and naive persona those kind of people usually have. A combination of pragmatism and optimism...

That said, it's a face which she likes the most.

' _Wa-wa-wait! What am I thinking?!'_

"Filvis!"

"Hya!"

She jumps lightly at the sudden call, seeing Shirou looking at her with a concerned look.

"Your magic energy is all over the place. Are you alright?"

"That... My condition is none of your concern! Hmph!"

She trots forward quickly, but the mixed emotions inside her causes her body to walk stiffly... and also comedically, with her right hand and foot stepping forwards at the same time. Her eagerness to escape from the binding situation has blinded her to her own plight, while Shirou is watching her with mirth in his eyes.

Continuing his explanation, he says, "Besides, my... attack back then will bring some repercussions. I'm going to lower my head and grovel to the ground to satiate the angers of those like you."

"You're really prideless, huh?" Filvis inquires, though her tone isn't mocking in the slightest. "Having that much power... you should hold your head up higher, like me."

"I will, if it has an effect on the beings from the Reverse Side of the World. Generally, they'll pick a fight whenever I follow that advice of yours, so I'll stick to my plans, thanks," Shirou grins. "If it can reduce the impact of their wrath onto the world, I'll do anything... besides offering my life, of course."

Filvis whistles. "I didn't peg you for having that normal 'fear'."

"Ahahaha," Shirou dryly laughs. "It's not that. Yes, I do have a fear of 'death' as a remnant of my human past, but right now, there's still those who needs my assistance, so I won't roll over and die just yet."

"And after that's done?"

He gives a mysterious expression, a mix of relief, happiness, and regret.

"Then it's done. That's all."

"What a sad way to live."

Staring at her pitying gaze, he replies, "It's the only way I know how."

Soon, it's time for their break together, much to her consternation.

Both of them are much more physically able than the average soldier, and thus manages to cover more grounds to Filvis's destination. They purposefully avoided the main transport route back in order to finish their own businesses, but they don't expect to be out of sync with the main troops for more than a day. Sitting down, they take out their own meals and starts to nibble away at it.

As they munch, Filvis keeps staring at Shirou, making him slightly uncomfortable.

Swallowing, he asks, "Do you want to ask me about what I said before?"

She nods quietly.

He inhales deeply, before saying, "How about we make a deal? I'll tell you about my origins, and you tell me yours. At least that'll get us going in a conversation."

"Hmph, you just want to get more of a leverage on me, aren't you?"

He smiles. "Not to that extent, but since you mentioned it..."

She puts her face in her palm, frustrated for falling for the obvious trap.

"Fine!"

"Well, since we've finished eating, shall we talk on the way?"

Cleaning up, they begin to walk at a more leisurely pace.

"Let's see... Well, there's not that much more to the story, to be honest," he starts. "It's my only dream: to save everyone I can, even the ones who have lost their way."

"Did you say that to Galehaut?"

"Yes."

She scowls. "I'd rather save the trouble and finish him quicker."

"Ah, but where's the challenge in that?" He says, smiling. "It's not that grand of a dream. I just... don't want to see anyone crying in sadness again, that's all."

The smile has a tint of sadness in it, one which Filvis clearly picks up.

"How many did you lose?"

He looks straight at her.

"Everyone."

That single word feels heavy in her heart. She nods gravely. "I see."

She's annoyed both at his antics and her reactions to them. She has decided to distance herself from as many people as possible in order to avoid them figuring out her identity, and yet he can read her like an open book. He then exploits her opening in many different ways, with many different jabs and comments, along with catching her off guard with his differing personalities.

She has her fair share of experiences in dealing with men. Camelot, despite having a relatively considerable female presence, is still just as male-dominated as the other kingdoms, current or past ones. She can't match her teacher or her senior in reading people, but she's quite confident she's above average in this regard. Yet, there's occasions when Shirou's words and mannerisms will flip opposite ways, confusing her.

There are times when he acts like a total asshole, constantly firing off sarcasms and belittling other people for their mistakes. Granted, he's always correct, but that only makes his comments hurt even more. Other times, like the ones they're having now in their walk, he acts like a gentleman, complete with the eloquent and philosophical tongue she usually encounters in parties. What impresses her the most is how _honest_ he sounds, indicating the belief he has in every word he speaks, unlike those shallow and empty nobles.

It almost makes her like him.

"What about you, then? Why do you wage your trade here, not in your own territory?"

She shuts her eyes in pain, before answering, "I got a little _too_ interested in human affairs, and was exiled."

He whistles. "Isn't that kind of harsh?"

"Not when I chose a human's life over my own clan's."

"I see," he replies, parroting her earlier response.

"That's why... I'm like this, see?" She says, twirling her jet-black hair so he can see clearly. "My clan has a beautiful, shining silver-blonde hair, unlike this shitty ones."

"I think it's beautiful enough on you, though."

"Oh, spare me the compliment," she shoots him down harshly. "Even if it's your honest opinion, wait until you see a member of my own clan. I'm sure you'll think otherwise then."

Despite the spiteful remark, the tips of her ears still grow redder.

"So it's a mark, then? What did you do, exactly? You're not the murderous type."

"Don't say things you pretend to understand." Her eyes shine with a dangerous light. "You don't know me, so stop those comments."

He puts his hands up in resignation. "Sorry, sorry. Please, continue."

"My father was a human. After my mother died, for my sake, the elders allowed him to stay in the territory, to raise me. I was... happy, back then, even though I lost my mother, because I thought I still had him by my side. I thought it was enough, just the two of us, going by, you know?"

She clenches her fist tightly. "In the end, though, he's still human."

She smiles bitterly. "I guess you lot are a greedy bunch, yeah? Even though he still had me, even though he's living by the elder's grace, he still wanted more and more."

He wants to ask a question, but moments when she speaks this much about herself are rare, so he lets her continue unabated.

"He went back to this realm and took another wife," she spits out the words with venom. "Before anyone woke up, he slipped past the border and went into hiding. I cried every night, wishing for his return, but the elders had decided him to be a criminal, closing our doors to him.

"When I grew up, I was tasked to bring justice to him. I wanted to... Yes, I _wanted_ to hurt him then, for hurting me, for sullying our memory with my mother. My seniors accompanied me, eager to see me break my filial shackles.

"When we arrived in the human realm, there was a war. It's for some stupid reason, and we didn't care about it very much. My blood was enough to divine his position, and we went straight to his lodgings, thirsty for recompense.

"It's so tiny, you know? His house, I mean," she chuckles. "I had this image in my mind where he became a successful man, gloating with an evil sneer at me while surrounded by his riches. Yet, the house was simply made, almost disgustingly frail."

Her voice begins to break, but she soldiers on, uncaring about her appearance. He wants to stop her before she says something she'll regret, but that'll turn out ugly. Unsure what to do, he stays silent.

"He's not there." She lifts her head, staring at the sky. "His corpse is somewhere in the battlefield, perhaps buried together with his stupid comrades along with any illusions of glory. What we found was his wife... with her throat slashed open.

"To the side, there was a crib... A blonde baby girl was there, sleeping innocently, while two men were ransacking the house for any meager amount of money. I... I reflexively riddled them with holes, which my seniors praised. Then, they wanted me to take the baby back with them, as a token of my father's sins, and to make her my own slave to serve me her entire life.

"You know what a slave to an elf means, Shirou? It means forever chained to a cycle of endless duty and abuse! When they're tired, we use Magecraft to replenish them so they can continue to work. When they're ill, or sick, or injured, we heal them just enough for them to start working again. They don't eat, drink, nor sleep, their entire life dedicated to our servitude.

"I... wanted to do so, at first. Then... then she wakes up... and smiles at me."

He sees a single tear drops from her eyes, but her walking pace increases instead.

"I didn't remember much after that. All I know was me running with her in my arms, teleporting as fast and as far my magic energy would allow. Maybe I hurt them, or killed them, I don't know, just... I arrived at an orphanage house, and left her there with some money and a note of her name.

"I... How stupid I was! I knew I should've taken care of her, not running away like that! I know!" Her voice is near hysteric, and their pace has turned into a run. "I know... but I couldn't go back and retrieve her. They'd come after me... and after her as well. So I sought Merlin's help to hide me and her.

"And now, here I am. Black hair, and a shot full of sins. So what?!"

She speaks the last bit with a shout, surprising Shirou.

"Er... nothing?" He awkwardly answers. "I think I don't have the capacity to judge you, so I won't."

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she rudely speaks to him, "Well, there you go! Satisfied?! You're the sort to gain pleasure from seeing girls cry, aren't you?! You pervert! Lecher!"

' _Okay, this is getting ridiculous...'_

\- PAK!

He claps his hand in front of her face.

It's not Magecraft nor Magic, but a simple physical trick. Of course, a well-trained magus won't be affected by it, but in her current condition, she's a prime target. The clap is done in a special way, not too hard or soft, just enough to produce a shockwave which intercedes with her own thought and nerve signals. Used properly, it can render someone completely unconscious, but he Alters the noise just to snap her out of her rant.

"Ha- Fue?!"

"Had enough?" He calmly asks.

"Ah, I... s-sorry..."

He reaches out and wipes the remaining tears off her face, making her jump in surprise. Silently, he mends her clothes and hair, having been messed up in her emotional antics, careful not to make skin contact. She's better than most elves, but personal contact is still a no-no for her. Oddly, apart from a few squirms, she lets his hand to roam her body freely, unlike their previous interactions.

Having done so, he nudges her to continue walking alongside him, which she complies.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Uh... sure," she meekly replies, embarrassed by her earlier outburst.

"What's your sister's name?"

She squints her eyes in recollection, before steadfastly answering, "I think... it's 'Cecilia' or something. It's been quite a few years since then, and I didn't contact her at all, so..."

"I see..."

Nodding sagely, he smirks at her.

"You know, as thanks for your... interesting storytelling, I'll give you something good for your reward."

"What is it?" She looks at him suspiciously, slightly backing away. "It better not be anything strange!"

' _Ah, it's good to have the normal her back.'_

"No, I just want to say that your sister is actually my student's student. Just saying."

Having dropped that bombshell, his pace doesn't falter, unlike Filvis who pauses in shock.

"Hey, hey, wait wait wait! What do you mean by thaaaattttttt?!"

She hurries to keep up with him, and as soon as she's near, she grabs his arm to halt his pace. They're traveling at quite a brisk speed due to her earlier energetic monologue, so it takes quite a while to reach him. He widens his eyes at the sudden physical contact, one she dislikes the most, but his remark is interrupted by her barrage of questions.

"Just like you heard," he shrugs. "It seemed the village where the orphanage was located was destroyed in a monster's attack, and in the aftermath, your sister becomes acquainted with my student. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured, so don't you worry. She's very healthy the last time I saw her."

Her face freezes while taking all the new information in. It's quite an adorable face, he notes, completely unlike her usual cold expression, but he doesn't have the heart to 'do an EMIYA' and say an insensitive comment.

Even he knows the time and place.

"And then...?" She presses him to continue.

"Hm? No, that's all. I didn't spend a lot of time with her, so-"

"No!" She stops him, pegging him for another answer. "I mean... What's she like? How does she look? Is she strong? Did she mention me? You-"

"Hey, hey, hey, slow down," he says, chuckling. "We're a bit pressed for time now, so let's talk while moving okay?"

For the first time, she agrees with him without any complaints.

* * *

"Boy, it'd do you best if you stop sulking like this."

The female voice sounds tired, but Lancelot pays her no heed.

His eyes are fixed at the naked figure of the woman floating inside a liquid-filled giant cylinder. It's a sight he's far too accustomed to, perhaps unjustly so, but lust is the furthest thing in his mind right now.

"Guinevere..." he whispers to no one in particular.

Nimue rubs the bridge of her nose in a distinctly human-like manner. The past year has seen her being influenced more and more by her host's habits and behavior, making her easier to blend into society, had she chosen a more low-key persona than her last two. It's still within expectations, but a being like her will discard her current body once she finds out it's hindering her goals. Now, though, it proves to be more of a headache, the natural frustration building inside her is alien to her original form. Lately, even her speech has also been affected, signalling the time to push her plans to the final phase.

She herself doesn't understand much of her endless drive to create chaos in the human world. Indeed, the humans are all fascinating creatures, acting like adorable pets under her eyes. Most of the beings comparable to her in strength also agree, but their approach in their relationship with humans differ. She herself prefers a dominating position to control them, while her sister would rather take a more supportive role.

Perhaps it's in her Origin, or maybe it's just how the humans wish her to be. Beings from the Reverse Side of the World partly derive their powers and characteristics from human minds and legends, their belief holding tangible power accessible to Nimue and the others. Of course, it inevitably causes changes to their personalities and physical traits, some beneficial, others loathesome. A few of her kind have rebelled against the legends binding them in the past, and she's sure more than a few will do so in the future.

Her? Well, she's content on where she is at the moment, but this ragged toy is testing her patience.

Alright, it's not as if she doesn't understand his pain. Losing a brother-figure in battle where he's not even there must've struck his ego like a giant sledgehammer. And _maybe_ he hasn't taken kindly to the idea of her empowering him at the cost of his sanity. _Perhaps_ he's angry at the fact she has taken his lover to this place, right in the middle of her sister's firing range.

The 'range' itself is also questionable. Direct attacks aren't her sister's nor her forte, both of them preferring to move pieces to strategic places for offense and defense. Taking Guinevere here may be a vulnerable move, because now the whole Kingdom will undoubtedly look for her, Nimue, and Lancelot, for the Lady of the Lake's involvement is all but certainly exposed. Not to mention that Heroic Vessel and the homunculus...

Leaving the wrecked man to mumble crazily by himself in the corner, she returns back to her temporary Workshop.

Bringing Guinevere here may look like a foolish move, painting a giant target on her back, yet it also serves as a good bait.

There's a saying of 'grouping all the problems together to deal with them' from a country far to the East. Now, SHIROU, the Pendragon family, Merlin, and all the famed warriors in the land will eventually converge to a place she can control, in a way she can predict. When they come...

...then she'll wipe them out in one go.

It has been always like this, in a storybook-like fashion. The protagonists of this stage will all assemble, unknowing they're merely standing on a stage she has designed, unable to do anything.

' _Now, now, let's not get carried away...'_

With that thought, she begins her work.

* * *

Mordred shifts uncomfortably as she's taken for a tour of Camelot by none other than her father herself, Altria Pendragon. Being used to living in relative simplicity, the sight of maids and guards saluting and groveling wherever she goes is very odd, to say the least. Cecilia seems to be having an easier time, admirably, or is it just her own personality? That said, the fact Altria seems keen to showcase and parade her 'prided' daughter has been grating in an overstated sense.

Really, all she wants is a strategic overlay of the building, and now it turns into an unofficial meet-and-greet with every single member of the staff. One thing she takes in positive is the knowledge that the chefs here are at least competent enough to make things palatable. If there's a single person who can cook better than Shirou in the lands, or even beyond the oceans, she'll hunt him down and propose to him/her, but that's a thought for another time.

Cecilia, meanwhile, is having a field day on her own. The experience of having the King herself as a tour guide, combined with the rightful respect given to her master, has made her into a happy bird. She knows humility is important, but she recognizes she's not as happy with living with meager resources as Master Mordred or Grandmaster Shirou. Her body is finally moving how she wants it, perhaps even better than she thought, and the feeling of freedom away from that constraining beds is slightly overwhelming her heart.

Now, with money and prestige in hand, there'll be no repeat of the multiple ambushes by lecherous bandits, no arrogant gazes from those chauvinistic warriors and knights, and most importantly...

' _Daily hot baths...'_

The thought of what she can enjoy tonight makes her knees weak, and wishing His Majesty will get over it already and let them rest. Master Mordred will maybe make a beeline towards the banquet table prepared tonight, though not extravagantly, given the recent circumstances, but she can't wait to soak in and have a good night's sleep in a bed much more expensive and comfortable than a piece of cloth over grass.

' _Is this the taste of the high life? Is it?!'_

She barely manages to keep her face from grinning stupidly all the way around Camelot. She has appearances to keep, of course.

Altria, noticing her daughter's distress, decides to call it a day and let both ladies rest. Leading them to their private chambers, she ponders the situation regarding the first female duo to reside within these walls. She herself and Guinevere are of course not counted, but considering the general culture, she thinks it'd be best if she has them reside in a section a bit further than the male knights.

The room is certainly fit for a general in the battlefield, though the softer, female touches Altria desires to have are still roughly done, due to time constrains. She doesn't know how to do it, and has asked Gwen to do it for her, before her kidnapping, but the chambermaids has continued the Queen's work acceptably. Seeing the look of the two women following after her, she mentally pats herself for a job well done.

Her happiness is dulled somewhat by Gwen's disappearance, but she still feels slivers of joy at impressing her sole daughter.

There's been some pressure from the nobles and the ministers regarding an heir to the throne before Mordred's existence becomes known. She's not really interested in making a child with Gwen, as their love is something different than that. Pure, untainted with lust. Their bodily needs are resovled in different ways: Gwen with Lancelot, and Altria with the help of several drugs to supress it. She loves her Queen and Knight, and has planned to adopt their child as the heir to the throne, before everything went to shit.

Now, meeting Mordred, she's glad she reserved that official decision.

Her daughter is certainly mighty in the battlefield. Watching her swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat, she can honestly say her daughter has already surpassed her. Indeed, Mordred's innate talent is greater than hers, being designed to do so in Morgan's womb and Workshop, but the effort she puts into herself is clear to see, even when gazing towards her student.

In terms of personality, she finds her own cheeks naturally loosening with every interaction they have together. Mordred's idealism reminds her of her younger self, when she has grand designs for the Kingdom, far before she was disillusioned by the truth. Yet, even after seeing the state of the Kingdom and the sacrifices she has made, Mordred is still able to retain her... perhaps _childish_ dreams and her innocence, laughing and smiling sincerely against every odds.

Her presence is like a warm summer's sunlight to Altria. While Gwen soothes her with backstage support like the gentle moonlight, Mordred's energy and enthusiasm has shone their way into everyone's hearts, charming them with her beauty and innocent charisma. Perhaps she still have ways to go to take the throne, even with Mordred herself declaring she has no interest in it before, but there's far worse candidates for it than her.

Having secretly decided that in her heart, she waves her daughter and Cecilia good night, and retreats to her own study to finalize Briton's next deployment.

"Fuwaa~"

Letting out such embarrassingly relaxed voice is Cecilia, flopping with her entire body on top of the large bed. It seems to be called 'double' size, meant for two people, but she'll take even a small piece of this bedding into the wild as her pillow if she can. She's been exercising lightly in order to resharpen her senses quickly, but the effect on her newly-healed body is rather intense. The fluffy mattress envelops and massages her smooth skin and tender flesh, making her face to contort into a stupid, drooling mess.

Mordred laughs freely at her student's antics, before looking around the room to ascertain the materials available.

' _Father has gone all-out...'_

Compared to the room both of them received on the field, the most striking difference, apart from the amount of furniture, is the girly touches spread here and there across the room. Personally, she thinks it's a bit much, since she's raised with a gender-neutral mindset and equipment due to convenience. Cecilia seems to enjoy it, so she doesn't have any complaints, but she worries Altria will end up overworking herself thinking about unimportant things.

Opening a door to the side, she whistles at the build quality of the bathroom.

It's dominated with a white color, using mostly limestone harvested from seaside cliffs. Normally, they tend to make poor building materials on their own, so it's used mainly as a veneer in this occasion. Being porous, it also helps with general hygiene as well. Further observation is on hold, though, as Cecilia barrels past her master into the middle of the bathroom.

"First dibs!" She excitedly proclaims.

Mordred chuckles. "I don't think we have time for this, Cecilia."

Her student feigns a disappointed expression, pouting exaggeratedly. "Muu... then we'll just have to get it together!"

She takes off her clothes in record speed, revealing her scintillating curvature of a mature woman, despite her age. Her chest swells bountifully, much to Mordred's annoyance, and her hips swells with the 'easy childbirth' type, without much of the fat usually associated with women Cecilia's size, cradling a patch of neatly-groomed blonde bush. A slight smell of sweat is let off from her body, but it's far from revolting.

Mordred's clothes, in comparison, is relatively more delicate and expensive, being another one of her father's overly-feminine gifts, so she takes her time to undo it all. Cecilia comes over to help, and in a smooth, practiced movements, the complicated light dress is unraveled.

Unlike Cecilia, who's getting lightly tanned with all her outdoor activities, Mordred's fair constitution has barely changed since she was born. Smooth, white skin shines bewitchingly under the white radiance of the bathroom walls, complimenting her golden hair and brilliant jade eyes. If Cecilia exudes the charm of a blossoming young woman, Mordred's beauty is like a precious, delicate doll, crafted by the most skilled artist as a showcase to the gods.

Her curves bulge gently, not overly thin, yet just enough to accentuate her femininity. The undulations of her chest are modest, but arousingly dainty and gentle. Due to Shirou's recent smooth-talking, her consternation to their size has abated somewhat, but other women will say the shape is perfect to fit in one's palm. The lines continue to her well-trained stomach, lean and taut like a mountain lion, down towards her smooth crotch and thighs.

Overall, the two of them are certainly beautiful in their own, sensual ways.

The water heats up quickly, and they scoops some of it upon their bodies. They decide against soaking in the large tub because Cecilia needs some sleep, but it doesn't prevent her from using her hands to help her master wash.

"Hey, Cecilia, t-that's enough, right- Ah!"

Enveloped from behind, Mordred's front is being thoroughly cleaned by Cecilia's hands. The voluptous blonde purposefully forgoes the rudimentary sponge and uses her palm to roam her master's delicate body, lathering it with soft touches, just enough to cause Mordred some... concerns.

"Mm... Master is so unfair..." She talks softly in Mordred's ears, "How can you stay this smooth without any treatmeennntttt?"

"T-That... Oh... How can I a-answerrr..."

Cecilia's larger palms go up and down Mordred's petite body, eliciting some moans and muffled protests from her master. However, as her hands strokes Mordred's navel, and starts to slide down, prying open the milky white thighs, Mordred slaps her student's hand, shooting her a dangerous glare.

"Cecilia, that place is for Shirou only, you know?"

The younger woman's flushed cheeks grow pale, nodding nervously. "O-Of course, Master."

"Good," Mordred flashes her a small smile, before standing up and heading towards the door.

"It's about time for my dinner, so don't stay too long in here."

"Understood, Master," Cecilia obediently nods, her previous teasing mood gone with that blunder.

"Have a sweet dream!" Mordred says loudly from the other side of the door.


	20. Food for Thought

**Since I'm publishing this on January 28th on my timezone, Happy Chinese New Year for all of you! Hope you receive the blessings you deserve, and may you prosper for this year! Gong xi fa cai!**

 **Now, one of you noticed the mistakes I made in the last few chapters. To be honest, I couldn't find them, and since there's only 'Guest' listed on the comment, I can't ask you for the mistakes I made. So, don't be shy and directly point out any mistakes you see; I'll try to fix them, and if they're not mistakes, at least I can explain what I did. Just put it in the comments below, or PM me, alright?**

 **For those of you in Australia as well, this may be late, but Happy Australia Day for you all!**

 **Enjoy! Don't forget to review, favorite, and follow! Shout out to FanFicReader712012 for their video recommendations!**

 **Disclaimer: The Guda Guda Order would've make a great anime, Nasu...**

* * *

Two contrasting rhythms of utensils are on display in front of the serving maids. Some of them are mocking in whisper, seeing one user clearly has no idea what she's doing, and dining with her own set of rules. Maybe it's because she's raised in the wild, they say. Of course, none of them dares to say it out loud. The others are halfway confused and amused, being experienced in all sorts of dining situation.

Altria is seated at one end of the shorter table, while Mordred is on the other. She's holding back a frown at her daughter's mannerisms, but only just. Mordred is obviously doing her best to keep things tidy, but the combination of her sheer eating pace and energetic personality still produces an uncouth image, one unbefitting of her daughter. She knows Mordred will get angry if she points it out, so she refrains to, preferring to set an example which her daughter can follow.

So far, her effort has been admirable, but still far from par. Well, at least Mordred has the urge to improve, or the King will have a headache soon enough.

To her tastebuds, the courses aren't very appealing to Mordred, having sampled her master's home cooking for several years now. She's currently consuming the food and drink laid out in front of her to regain some energy due to her battle with Scáthach and Lancelot. The conversion rate of consumables into magic energy, specifically Od, is quite low, barring some types of Magus or Magic User who specializes in this area, so she has no choice but to indulge like a caveman if she wants to stay in top shape.

While she's eating, she's still analyzing her battle with the demigoddess. Truth be told, deep down, she's frustrated at her current lack of strength. She knows she's nowhere near her limit, but the scene of Cecilia lying helpless on the ground, dying, and the smirk on Scáthach's face as she gracefully escapes grates her mind. The haphazard blast from Clarent can still hurt her, sure, but there's no way for Mordred to bypass Scáthach's immortality. She wants to get stronger, far stronger than she is now, but she instinctively knows this is the limit of self-teaching herself without proper guidance.

She needs Shirou.

If she appears once more, the swordswoman suspects the only one who can match the demigoddess is Shirou. Merlin can probably cook up something useful, but she doubts he can do anything permanent to someone whom the Gods can't even kill themselves. She has a feeling Scáthach isn't even going all-out during their match, which increases her annoyance.

' _Damn, all these thoughts make the food even more tasteless...'_

Before she knows it, the stream of meals ended, and the maids move forward to clean the table in a synchronized fashion. Some of them stay behind as the others take the dishes to be washed, waiting for further orders, but Altria waves her hand to signal them to leave. Obliging their liege, they bow once and march outwards, following their comrades.

Silence soon falls between them, the younger of the two Pendragons aloof to the atmosphere, while the older one mentally sweats over her following words.

Finally, the silence is broken by Mordred.

"Father."

"Hmm?!" Altria half-jumps in her seat, clearly lost in thought.

"Why aren't I being sent alongside the other Knights?"

"Ah..."

Altria is momentarily lost for words at the forward question. It's an inquiry she's been dreading for quite some time now, weighing in the back of her mind.

To be honest, Mordred's deployment should be the logical reason. As she has realized beforehand, her daughter is perhaps the strongest individual in the meeting earlier, perhaps matched only by Merlin. Additionally, she has intimate knowledge of the culprit, Nimue of the Lady of the Lake, and as such the most adequate to deal with the situation. Of course, even Mordred herself admits she's no match for the Fairy Queen alone, but for her to lead the effort should be a no-brainer.

But there's only one reason Altria decides otherwise.

Fear.

It's an emotion Mordred reads well.

Her indifferent face exhibits a warm smile, directed at Altria alone. The change stirs her heart, since Mordred has never showed her such expression before.

"Father, I'm strong."

"I know."

"I'll bring back Her Highness, that's for sure."

"I know."

"There will be others who'll get hurt because I'm not there."

"I know."

Instead of condemning Altria's indecision, Mordred decides to stay silent, giving her father the time she needs to form the words so alien to her mouth.

After a while, Altria looks up, asking, "Will you... walk with me?"

Mordred nods wordlessly, following the King to the upper levels of the castle.

In the darkness, the pathways and corridors inside possess such a mysterious atmosphere. They aren't walking along the interior walkways, but the ones closer to the walls, lined with numerous stone arches to let in the cool night air and a sliver of moonlight. The combination of silver and amber lighting from the moon and the torches soothes Altria's nerves, somewhat returning her logical thinking prowess.

Until this day, she has rarely felt this feeling.

Ever since she announced her ascendance to the throne, she gradually shaved off any unnecessary emotion unconducive to ruling. Emotions such as lust, greed, sloth, wrath, love, hatred, and others which may obstruct her decision making were consigned to a very small corner in her heart, never allowed to rampage freely. There were occasions when she'd let some of it out, privately, to avoid a mental breakdown, but those were far and few in between.

Now, she's being reminded of the one emotion she has long forgotten exists.

Fear is a natural defense mechanism for all living beings. It keeps them alive, driving them away from dangerous situations and adversities, giving them a goal to overcome and master. There's a saying a courageous person isn't one devoid of fear, but one who has conquered and triumphed over it, even if the situation doesn't favor them.

For many years, she has neglected to allow herself to feel fear. Thus, it consumes her in a mad rush, gripping her heart tightly. The talk earlier eases her slightly, but it hasn't gone away.

It's odd in hindsight. No matter her opponent, no matter her servants and friends, her emotions has rarely go on a rampage as large as this. Merlin theorizes the cause to be her meeting with Mordred, the various bottled feelings surging outwards uncontrollably due to the shock. Many positive and negative thoughts raised to the surface back then, her long training the only thing holding them back.

Now, with Gwen gone, she fears that she'll lose Mordred as well the moment she lets her daughter out of her sight.

A soft breeze blows outside, shaking some leaves off the trees. The low-energy wind is amplified through the relatively small walkway, fluttering past Mordred's long skirt and Altria's undone hair.

They reach a large, wide balcony area, a new addition to the old castle for entertaining guests. Without the furnitures and people, though, it feels desolate and lonely.

"I... had hoped this talk would never come," Altria softly speaks. "I envy you, Mordred."

"H-Huh?!"

Surprised, Mordred lets out such a sound.

Altria lets out a small smile as she turns around to look at her.

"Sometimes... I wish I can be so free to express my thoughts and feelings." She continues weakly, "You are right, though. Yes, I am indecisive, because I do not know how to deal with this surge of emotion."

After a moment, Mordred replies, "Then don't. Now, no one is watching, Father. No one to judge you, no one to criticize you, so just let it all out. There's no shame in that."

"Yes... I suppose I should," she replies. "But... I do not know how."

Mordred steps forward, and surprisingly, takes Altria's palm and put it on her own heart.

' _How warm... and powerful...'_ Altria thinks.

"There's no 'I don't know'," Mordred insists. "Can you feel it? My heart beating? This is... _me_ , Father. There's no mask, no pride to be uphold, so just follow your own heart and act."

Gingerly, she holds out her palm, and slips it through Altria's thick male clothes onto her breast, mirroring her own exact same position.

She smiles at her father warmly.

"It's alright."

Altria's lips waver for a moment, before her body weakly leans onto Mordred's bosom, nuzzling her face onto her daughter's neck. The move startles the young woman, her arms flailing to wrap around her father.

"I am scared of losing you," she says, still with a calm voice.

Mordred can sense the trembling heat emitted from her father's very core, and instinctively reaches out with her own. Suddenly, she can _feel_ Altria in all her entirety, as if her essence and her father's have mixed together. The words are touching, but it's the sincerity she's feeling tastes so pleasurable.

"For years... family was the farthest thing in my mind. Many, many times... I witnessed majestic empires and powerful nations crumbled in the name of 'family', so I passively decided against it. You know my body's condition, so... No, not that..."

Against Altria's rant, Mordred merely rubs her back gently, urging her to let her emotions out.

"Then, when I met you, I sense... hope, the first time since a long while ago. Gwen has been... distant recently, and I knew I couldn't bring her the happiness she deserves."

Mordred sighs. "So that's why you hesitated against that black knight?"

Altria smiles weakly. "You know me so well."

"Lucky guess."

She gently lowers them both onto the ground into a more comfortable position. Altria decides against pulling away from the comforting heat of her daughter, so she meekly entrusts her body to Mordred.

"When I met you, I guess... I was happy. Even knowing your ancestry does not change that. I saw my younger self in you, so I grew excited and lost control of myself slightly."

Mordred smiles bitterly. "It didn't sound like the Father I remembered back then."

"If I seemed cold to you, I... I am sorry, Mordred," Altria says, almost pleads. "I had forgotten long how to rejoice, how to love again, so I apologize."

She inhales deeply, savoring the scent of the perfumed bath she gives her daughter. "And now, the thought of losing you is overpowering. I... do not know how to defeat this feeling."

She chuckles. "Ah, what a pathetic parent am I, no? Showing this kind of shameful appearance ot my daughter..."

Mordred shakes her head. "No, I don't mind it, really. It's because... you recall the scenes I saw? The ones where we killed each other?"

Being reminded of such brutal scenes, Altria's expression darkened, and she nods.

"I think it's because you're too prideful to show your emotions, and we ended up... disagreeing, to say the least." She laughs lightly at the extreme understatement, before saying, "So please don't think you look terrible. I prefer it this way, even though I know after this you'll just revert back to your usual self."

Altria bites her lower lip.

"I shall try not to."

"I think everyone will be happier if you do, Father."

Altria shifts her seating position, creating some distance between their chests to look at Mordred's eyes.

"You have called me 'Father'... but I always seem to deliver that title injustice," she says dejectedly. "I wish I can be a proper one for you, Mordred."

Her words sends a tingle down Mordred's spine, a combination of honest voice and sincere green eyes.

However, it seems she has to hurt her father once more.

"I don't think you ever will be."

Altria's expression shifts into looking like a hurt puppy, stabbing into Mordred's heart.

"All these years I'm alone... I think the person who had been a parent-figure to me is my master. You're... These moments of late feels more like a sisterly bond between us, not parent and child. Sorry."

The King shakes her head. "No, I suppose asking you that selfishly is too much. I am the one who should apologize." She tries speaking with a firm tone, but her expression still stays the same downcast one from before. "I am looking forward to meeting this master of yours, Mordred. It should be... interesting, I think."

She tries to stand up, but Mordred tightens her grip.

"No, I didn't mean it so bluntly, Father. I just... heck, I can't even trust you with my own life at the moment. If you push so aggresively, sorry, but I just... I can't, okay?" Mordred shows a forced smile, but even that is able to lift Altria's mood.

"Maybe with a bit more time between us, then it'll be possible, but now? I don't think so, Father. Sorry."

She feels her father's palm stroking her cheek.

"Like I said, I am the one who should be apologizing. Please lift your head."

When she does so, a gentle force pulls her into her father's embrace.

"Then, please let me indulge at least this much."

Mordred can't hold back a small chuckle.

"Father, you're surprisingly childish, aren't you?"

"I do not know what you are talking about."

Even so, Altria's lips blossom into a smile.

Slowly, Mordred separates herself from the King, and stands at attention.

"Now, please give me the order, Your Highness."

"It will not be an order," Altria interjects, "but a simple request. Not from a king to his vassal, nor a father to her child, but between friends and comrades. Will you accept?"

Her daughter flashes her a predatory smirk.

"It depends."

Lightly bowing, Altria speaks formally, "Please bring my wife back safely, Lady Mordred."

A resolute vow echoes across the night air.

"I will."

* * *

"Greetings, Heroic Vessel."

The bell-like voice is transmitted clearly across the plains, even though our distance shouldn't permit such clear communication, barring telepathy. A quick scan reveals an air-based spell is at work, compressing the voice so it can be heard across any distance, like the principle of two cups connected by a string. It's a foreign person I've never met before, though clearly it's a different matter to my companion.

Filvis is shivering in fear beside me, shifting her body to partially hide behind my frame.

I think it's a voice from her past, one which holds so much authority it causes an adverse reaction from the half-elf. For me, though, I don't feel any ill intent in it whatsoever, so I simply stroll forwards, despite Filvis's vehement protests.

"Good evening to you too," I reply, applying the same sort of spell.

My Pure Eyes are already active the moment I detect some sort of Magecraft is at work, revealing its enchantress. From this distance, I have to boost it with Reinforcement to catch and analyze her entire being, and what I find is slightly underwhelming, judging from Filvis's clear fear. I have expected someone more menacing or an absolute monster in terms of battle strength, but what's barring my way is a lone girl.

Physically, she looks even younger than Mordred, though the bulges apparent from under her clothes will drive my lover green with envy. Translucent blue hair runs down her back, glittering with such radiance that I question its authenticity. Of course, her ears are of similar length and shape to Filvis, but her shorter height and plumper proportions creates a sense of contrasting immorality, like seeing a small, cute child possessing a gravure model's proportions.

"This voice... i-is it Lady Ellis?!" Filvis vehemently whispered.

Having knowledge of her past, and gleaming from her reactions, it's most likely this 'Lady Ellis' is an elven royalty, or someone similar to it. Her strength is obvious, leagues above Filvis, perhaps a match for me in this restrained state. Most alarmingly, though, is the core of her powers, which smells like a substance all too familiar to me.

Blood.

There's been a few people whose Origin and magic energy smells as such, but the scent itself isn't definitive. There's one whose scent is due to her own immense bloodlust, and her powers and strengths are completely unrelated to it. Some Dead Apostles and Servants also possess similar scent due to bathing in blood nearly daily. Others are blood-users in the most literal term possible: using their blood as the medium of their skills and Magecraft, whether it's only as a substance or a physical object.

That said, I'm hoping I can find out _without_ a fight this time.

With my quickened pace, we approach the young girl with haste, much to Filvis's nervousness. The terrain shifts again, from our starting position in the plains of the former battlefield, to rural thicket and bushes, to stunning prairies surrounded by gentle hills. There, in the middle of the swirling wind and swaying grasses, stands the elven... 'princess', I'd say. It fits her image.

Filvis stands back, almost automatically assuming a lower social position than me and Ellis. Is it habit, or respect? Not knowing what to do with that girl, I continue on.

"Welcome to Earth," I jokingly greets.

It's always a hit-or-miss with these creatures regarding how you should act. The statistics are pretty much even, so with the insurance of my greater fighting ability, I'll do what I want and deal with it later. I don't have time to check with the Akashic Records regarding Ellis's data due to the suddenness of everything, so I'll make the gamble.

Thankfully, she giggles playfully at my greeting, ringing clearly and beautifully in my ears. I can imagine Filvis shrinking back at our close proximity, even with her staying several paces away. Her reactions has been strange ever since Ellis announces her presence, because I can't feel or see any sort of malicious intent from her.

Generally, from their magic energy output and normal mannerisms, I can divine some sort of personality analysis with an average of 70% accuracy. Of course, this method requires experience, and I'm constantly learning and improving. With it, again, I can't sense any evil thoughts or actions from the blue-haired girl.

"Yes, the journey has been harsh," she replies happily. "Sadly, I bear not very good news for you and your kind, thus the trip seems a waste of my time."

"Oh?" I ask, slightly alarmed. "May I know what it is?"

Her voice rises up a notch in volume, enough for Filvis to hear her clearly.

"The Council has decided the Heroic Vessel SHIROU is a threat to Mother Earth, and thus must be summarily exterminated with due cause."

...

"May I... know the entire verdict?"

"Certainly," she says as she bows gracefully, dainty fingers lifting the edges of her white one-piece dress. "Due to recent circumstances, in which Heroic Vessel SHIROU has carelessly taken a portion of Mother Earth's energy and soul, and subsequently molding it into a weapon for his personal use, the Council sees this act as an act of rampant vigilantism and carelessness. They move to see you punished, good sir."

Even when delivering blow after blow of words, her tone never wavers from her earlier cheerful, innocent tone. As she speaks the full verdict, though, I've already figured out her true intention.

Certainly, she's only a messenger, which is why her voice is kept as stable and subtle as possible. However, from the precious few seconds I bought, I've completed my rudimentary analysis of her behavior, and it all points to one thing.

She's on my side the entire time.

"Then... may I defend myself in front of the, uh... _esteemed_ Council?"

"Certainly."

She brings her palms together, and as she opens them back, a flurry of red droplets shoots out and settles into formation, creating an ever-changing piece of red sheet. The negative space between the droplets serves as the white of a paper, while the red droplets themselves are the black ink as a stand-in for the geas.

The use of blood here is both intriguing and ingenious. Now that she's revealed her ability to control blood, it's a show of her strength and the confidence of the Council who has chosen her to be an emissary. Additionally, this form of geas accepts no less than my own blood, binding me to the rules written on them. A quick glance with my Eyes confirm the make-up of the droplets: they come from different individuals, perhaps the members of the Council. Indeed, if they want to bind a being of my caliber, they have to bring at least this much.

Once more, from the magic energy surrounding the blood droplets, I can't even get a glimpse of malicious intent, further compounding my earlier judgement. Of course, getting overconfident is a big no-no, but at least I don't have to jump out of my way like Filvis does..

I pierce the tip of my thumb with a Reinforced nail, and flicks it neatly towards the intended slot.

Like origami, the blood droplets curves and folds upon itself, before residing inside Ellis's palm.

The girl, still smiling sweetly, bows once more, and vanishes in a cloud of red mist.

The tense atmosphere disappears, and as I relax my body, I call out to the scaredy-cat behind me.

"She's already gone, you know," I jest.

"I can see that!"

She rushes to my side, still staring at the spot where the elf has just stood.

"Hmph, what a hypocrite..."

"Eh?" I let out a sound. "What do you mean?"

"Acting all high and mighty like that, even though her husband is human...!"

Oh, I see. My impression on Ellis is good, but that's due to my superior observation capability compared to... well, compared to anyone, basically. I have data Filvis probably will never have, so my earlier confusion regarding her antagonism towards the blue-haired girl is in fact wrong. It's a simple matter of explaining how beautiful a scenery is to a blind person: useless.

I hum. "Hmm... so is she one of your relatives? A part of your tribe? Or do the current elves live under a single banner?"

"The latter, I think," she replies, still seething after Ellis's appearance. "We used to do the former, but it didn't really work out, so we switched a few years before I ran away."

"I thought you elves all have this 'beautiful, shining silver-blonde hair' like you mentioned."

She huffs. "That's just my tribe, you numbskull. Different tribes and lineage have differing appearances, as do humans. But... that blue hair of hers is unique among her family, if I recall correctly, as a result of a mutation from her powerful ability."

"From your expression, she looks like a big shot, huh? Who is she really? Socially, I mean."

She stares at me incredulously, before saying, "Even though you act like a snobby know-it-all, there's stuff you don't know, huh?"

I wryly smile. "Of course. I'm not a god, and nor do I want to be one."

She proudly puffs out her chest, an arrogant smirk forming on her face.

"Huhu, well, then listen up. She's the eldest daughter of the current Chief, although I heard he's going to step down soon. She won't replace him because of the status of her husband, but her strength is no joke, so the Council can't just ignore her or her husband, for that matter."

"'Husband', huh...?" I ponder. "What can he do? I mean, he must be pretty special for an elven princess to love him."

She waves her hand around pessimistically. "Just a sword nut, nothing more. I think he's just her type, so she likes him a lot- Why are you grinning so disgustingly?"

I lightly slap my cheeks to loosen them up.

"No, just reminded of something funny."

"Geez, when will you ever take things seriously? You told me your dream needs to be chased after continuously, right? Why are you playing around like this?"

"Ah, I'm just worried that you'll fall and hurt your knees or something on the way back."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Are you telling me you've foretold this development?"

"Somewhat," I admit. "It's always a risk when using my full strength. It's a good thing that only Ellis shows up, and no one else."

"Fuu..." she exhales disappointingly. "I think I'd take my chances on that 'no one else'."

I tap her shoulder, making her look at me.

"Believe me, you don't."

Seeing my serious expression, her body language tightens up, and she nods reluctantly.

"Well, I suppose this is where we part," I say, spreading my arms to stretch them out. "Stay safe, then."

I start walking, but before I can get more than a few steps in, a lithe hand pulls mine to stop me.

Staring straight at Filvis's eyes, I throw her a questioning look.

She jumps lightly, apparently just as surprised at the motion as I do.

"A-Ah, no... this is... um..."

Her mumblings are weak, but her grip is rather strong.

"H-Hmph! If you go there, then things'll only get worse!"

I sigh.

"You really have so little faith in my ability?"

"Yes!" She declares. "You'll say things which will irritate them just to get your kicks, right?! There's no way I can put this kingdom in your hands!"

' _Really, do I have that kind of unreliable atmosphere?'_

"That's why I'm coming with you! This way, you won't mess it all up!"

' _This development sounds familiar...'_

"How about it?!" Filvis energetically asks.

Arguing with her is just a waste of time.

Fine, _maybe_ I have such a track record. But throughout several lives, I've accumulated quite a considerable amount of political experience, you know? I still hate politics, but that doesn't mean I can't play it if it's needed.

"Fine," I say. "Don't regret it."

She snorts, and we make our unscheduled trip even longer.

* * *

' _This feels incredible...'_

Cecilia repeatedly clenches and unclenches her fist while lying down on the newly made bed. Indeed, the feel of high-class sheets and fillings do simulate what she expects from heaven itself, but as her body relaxes and her mind wander, she begins to question her own state.

After she woke up from her unconscious state, it felt as if the world is... clear. The initial sensation wasn't that different from her usual senses, merely a bit brighter, a bit louder around her. She attributed them to adrenaline still pumping within her, the flow of battle carrying her mind higher and higher up the gears. However, when it didn't subside at all in the next few days, and increased instead, she began to take interest.

It's nothing so overwhelmingly brilliant that her brain was instantly fried by processing all the available information. She felt like a baby chick right after breaking free of her shell, meeting the fresh air, the warm sun, the moisture around. Slowly, carefully, each and every day was like a revelation for her, leading her to discover many more things she took for granted in the past.

The light reflecting off the dust flying in the air creates a kaleidoscopic effect, refracting and diffusing the sunlight into colorful rainbows. The scent of sizzling fat overwhelms her nose and stomach, drilling its way right down into her grumbling pit. The conversations within the hustle and bustle of the castle were unique in their own way, her ears capable of picking them apart and listening to all of it at the same time.

The powerful and fiery stream of blood and magic energy she called her master. The swirling mass of pulsating pollen floating around the court mage. The shining sword brighter than the sun itself, hanging from the waist of a blonde knight. The soft, squishing sound of a woman's breast hiding beneath a man's armor, sitting on top of a throne.

She now knew all of it, without really trying.

' _Is this what they felt all the time?'_

She stretches out her hand towards the dark-colored ceiling while lying down on the mattress.

Beyond her fingers, the figure of a petite blonde and a lanky redhead is visible.

Before, those two were walking away from her, no matter how fast she chased after them. She moved her feet even faster, yet the distance seemed to only become further and further away. She kept running anyway, if only to avoid the despair of her own self catching up to her.

Now, they both stop. No longer is the time when she uselessly seek them. Now, they're both within the reach of her palms.

' _Just a little bit more...'_

She's sick of being a burden to anyone. During the fight with Scáthach, her weakness lead her master to injure her arm in a hopeless fight. That woman was a monster beyond imagination, and she's certain even Mordred would struggle to defeat her, but at the very least, she wished for the strength to escape that precarious situation.

If she continued like she was, she'd only drag everyone down with her into a place salvation was impossible.

She clenches her fist tightly, feeling the pain of her trimmed fingernails digging into her palm.

She's not thinking of something stupid like revenge. Scáthach was clearly out of her league, perhaps forever. She has done some research on that person, and found out the extent of the demigoddess's strength. The source of that overwhelming power is something a mortal like her will never reach nor capable of wielding, and a part of her is glad she manages to avoid death in Scáthach's hands.

Instead, this increased ability of hers... Yes, she should use it to support her master, like she has always done in the past.

In that fight, her own limits were painfully displayed in front of her.

It's grating.

Grandmaster Shirou has always preached about 'effort trumps talent', but now, against that monster, she realizes only how little her effort can improve her further. Not that she suddenly distrusts him, since the swordsmanship and physical abilities both he and Mordred has taught her has clearly put her near the leagues of the Knights of the Round Table. She even dares to say with a few more years, she can be a worthy addition to their ranks, if she's ever interested in serving anyone other than Mordred.

But that's it. She can see the ceiling of her ability, now she's gathered some experience. The younger her a few years ago would naively aim for the top, but now, as she has climbed the arduous trek towards martial perfection, the pain only made clear how far she can go. Of course, she's not planning on giving up yet until she reaches that actual limit, but her motivation to break that barrier is suddenly blunted.

...maybe she shouldn't talk about this in front of her master, lest Mordred beats her senseless to 'purify' her thoughts.

Her master is now having dinner with her father. There's no doubt, considering Master Mordred's personality, that Cecilia and her will depart the castle soon to join the others. Thinking about it in hindsight, it's strange how His Highness hasn't decided on that yet, but there's perhaps some filial sentimentality in that decision. If it does happen, then she'll have the opportunity to test out her new limits.

The eagerness causes her lips to turn into a grin.

Looking at her replacement sword perched on the table, a thought passes her mind.

' _Can't wait for tomorrow...'_

* * *

 _She's dreaming._

 _In this short life of hers, she finds this act to be very enjoyable, having not been configured to enjoy this treat from her original brain by her mother's initial designs. She loves it, for its incredible variety and creativity, for its amazing sceneries and happy endings, for its ability to stretch time and space according to her leisure._

 _She's dreaming._

 _Dreaming of blood and entrails. Of how her blade sinks into the flesh of her own comrades, and how their own stabs into her own. Of the glee she feels as her friends fall one after the other by her own bloodied hands, and the pain of her father's lance inside her gut. Of the despair as her father rejects her, and the joy at killing that person herself as the holy sheathe is gone._

 _She's dreaming._

 _Dreaming of dragons and elves, of everlasting fires and evergreen winter. She dreams of the warmth of the man standing beside her, holding her hand in that large, rugged palm of his which scalds her skin. She dreams of the intense, electrifying shock as his lips touches her body over and over again, as her hands roam all over his stone-hard member. She dreams of the calming sensation whenever he holds her close, of the tears dropping from her eyes whenever they separate._

 _She's dreaming._

 _She dreams of a field of swords, stabbed into the ground like makeshift gravestones, blanketed by soft, lush grass which sways with the calming wind. The sky above her is a breathtakingly impossible mixture of daybreak, noon, sunset, and midnight, all playing out on an ever-shifting canvas. The landscape is mostly flat, with only several gentle slopes marking the background, seemingly close, yet infinitely far away._

 _She dreams of a red-haired man, standing away from her, showing her an all-too familiar wide back. She moves her legs to stand by her side, yet no matter how much she tries, no matter how far she runs, his figure never gets closer. She reaches out with her hands and voice, but they are ignored as he is more intent to look in front of him, rather than the lover he left behind._

 _It hurts._

 _In the middle of her chest, around the imaginary area people call 'heart', it hurts._

 _It hurts, even though she understands all too well._

 _She knows why she's not worthy to be by his side. She knows why her efforts won't ever reach his conscience. She knows why her love can never be replied with a genuine one, as the man's heart is a mere reflection of her own emotions. He loves her, yet he doesn't. He's happy being with her, yet he doesn't. He's grateful for her presence, yet he doesn't._

 _Why...?_

 _Then, if his emotions are only fakes, why..._

"Why are you crying for me, Shirou...?"

Mordred's soft voice is heard by no one as she awakes from her slumber.


	21. Departure and Arrival

**Hey, guys! Been a long time!**

 **Alright, I have to admit I didn't announce anything before the sudden hiatus, and I sincerely apologize. A lot of IRL things meant I just couldn't get to writing at all, so this story takes the hit. Sorry, and thank you for you guys who kept wanting me to update the story. You give me so much motivation to come back, and here I am! But first, some mailbag replies:**

 **Nerf Irelia: Thanks for your feedback. I'll try to implement the things you suggest, but I need to make one thing clear: to be honest, I never thought of Third Fang's From Fake Dreams when I assigned the number 'Ten' to Shirou. Like I said in one of the author notes, I was just looking for some random number, and one of Detective Conan's case gave me an inspiration: to use part of his name as a number. Because the kanji 'Shi' in 'Shirou' has (partly) an element of the number 'Ten', so I decided on it. Thanks for the heads up, but certainly not my intention to rip Third Fang off.**

 **In any case, enjoy the story! I hope this story can return to its regular updates schedule.**

 **Disclaimer: Even with the long hiatus, there's still no new series from Nasu... what low productivity...**

* * *

The place is nicer than I thought.

Well, I'm sure it's only my personal opinion, because Filvis can't stop shivering beside me. She manages to put up a calm face, despite her past and the current situation, but her magic energy output is all over the place. Her body isn't 'shivering' physically, but her Od is wavering and vibrating so erratically it's like a swarm of flies swirling over rotten meat, instead of her usual elegant flow. There's also a certain tension in her joints when she walks, but that's understandable.

Her image overlaps with a criminal walking into a court room, which is fitting enough.

I'm glad she saved Cecilia when she was a baby. That girl is instrumental to Mordred's mental growth, and I was happy for the both of them when they explained how they forged their relationship. However, as was always the case, saving a person often meant abandoning someone else, as Filvis could attest to.

A mindset I hate the most. It's not just the influence from EMIYA, but his memories, along with my other selves, keep mentioning that theme. My entire existence is devoted to denying that claim... Heck, I gave up on my afterlife just to give it the middle finger. I respect Kiritsugu Emiya as a professional and a foster father, but I loath his original mentality.

Even if I has recently failed to uphold my ideal against Galehaut, it doesn't mean I should give up on it. It doesn't mean it's a flawed ideal, and it doesn't mean it's not worth chasing after. The smile of Kiritsugu Emiya, etched inside the original body of Shirou Emiya, was too beautiful, too pure to give up on. It's the ideal I keep inside my soul, even if it's destroyed, reformed, and repeated over and over again to form my current self.

I said Filvis was like a criminal waiting to be judged for her crimes.

I... am a simple sword waiting to be evaluated for my worth. My words and actions will serve as my weapon, trying to display my ideal in a way acceptable to the Elven Council. Not everyone agrees with it, and Mordred certainly doesn't, because she fears I'll go and kill myself when she isn't looking, but the elves have a notably different mindset and morality than humans.

Filvis's existence proves to me they can be persuaded to align their thoughts with a humane one. The Akashic Records have provided me with ample information, so my chances are actually much better than I expected. I just hope I don't... 'mess it up', as Filvis has said.

Like I said before, the elves' territory is much less hostile than I thought. Many times I've walked across many battlefields, both urban and non-urban, and most of the times I could get a 'feel' of the area before commencing my operations. Generally, my 'Eye of the Mind' was accumulated through experience, so the readings were mostly accurate.

The masses are curious and suspecting, but that's all there's to it. There's no hostile glances or accusatory shouts, and best of all, there's no one who suddenly jumps out of the crowd and attack us, which is a surprisingly common occurrence in the Present World. I guess they're quite isolated from the Present World, and even if my actions has caused a disturbance in this area, they'll shrug and move on, as long as no one is hurt.

This is my griping with politics. The higher-ups will decide whatever they want to, at their leisure, and never according to the opinion of the general people. The only times they do is when they're pretending to, for example during public forums or elections. From Filvis's story, the elves have a monarchy system, though the gap between royalty and the common folk isn't as wide as it used to. The number of humans or other creatures is surprisingly abundant, about 5% from my observation just walking around.

If Ellis's husband is a human, then I suppose the elves are now quite open-minded about relationships with other races, which should help my chances. It wasn't always like this, but the past few centuries has brought about many changes to the system, most of it resembling what I'm used to.

Granted, those of my kind rarely exists in the same reality. Currently, the three of us are always busy with assignments, and the only times we congregate is the debrief back in the room where we were born.

To put it in a simple way, if it happens when Alaya decides to deploy more than one of us, then things has really gone FUBAR.

Recently, I begin to think of some recruitment strategies. Alaya's algorithm is accurate, but much too slow for our needs. But the experiences I've been through in... well, _becoming_ myself deter me from putting someone else through it. This reality doesn't have a suitable candidate, and I'll never put Mordred under the same curse I have simply by associating herself with me.

' _Hmm... what to do, what to do...'_

Before I know it, we've arrived at our destination.

Indeed, it's a place suitable for a court room.

The outer fences aren't that high or imposing, merely slightly higher than me and made of irrationally straight tree trunks. Vines brimming with mana entwine themselves between them, creating a high-intensity barrier for any trespassers. Stepping into its territory, I can feel my body becoming heavier, as if I'm walking through water. The sensation only lasts for an instant, as my innate Magic Resistance neutralizes its effect. Filvis is another matter, though, so I grab her hand to ease her burden by channeling a small amount of magic energy.

Her fair skin blushes heavily at the contact, but I smile to ease her worry. She seems to accept the situation, however, because she was even struggling to breathe earlier. Her identity is of course known to all the guards and staffs stationed inside the area, and their not-so-subtle glares are piercing through her body.

The building in front of us are much simpler than the modern courts I remembered. There's nothing holding these elves in terms of technology, so I assume it's due to their taste of design. Like the fence earlier, the building is made mainly of vegetation, forming a single-story large hut with a low ceiling. The main shape is remarkably blended in with the surrounding, and what a surrounding it is.

We're situated near a creek, and the slope of the shore is actually made out of several stone slabs jutting out from the outcrop. There are several trees and shrubberies growing between them, and the building is nestled nicely in a natural-looking indentation of the earth around it. The construction material and the color of the building is of the same shade of green-yellow as the surrounding floating leaves and fresh tree trunks, creating a false sense of discretion.

Sadly, my admiration for the architect must now end, because the main door has just been opened for both of us.

Once more, the interior is a far cry from the modern day, crime show-like judge-jury-executioner type. It's magnificently simple, with various figures sitting behind a low table, on the floor, circling an empty space for me and Filvis to sit down. Ah, that 'sit down' is a long shot, since the guards escorting us from the door apply pressure on both of our shoulders, forcing us to take a seiza position.

The figures surrounding us are plenty strong, at least a level above Filvis's maximum potential, although there's several outstanding figures. Ellis is there slightly to my right, her magic energy still reeking of that disgustingly sweet odor of blood. A man is sitting beside her, slightly to the back, without the elves' long ears, so I assume this is the aforementioned 'husband'. Apart from his... _interesting_ sword, his ability isn't worth noting, though he's leaps and bounds above the current generation of the Knights of the Round Table, bar Mordred, Lancelot, and Tristan.

That said, I think the 'big boss' is sitting there in the middle, because as far as my senses can reach, there's no one with greater magical power than this woman.

Rather than describing her features, what strikes me about her appearance the most is her similarities to one Ilyasviel von Einzbern, apart from her elongated ears. Her Od is oozing in droves from every pore of her skin, barely contained from flooding the room. The thick layer coats her body in an alluring shine, making her features sparkle similar to those love manga scenes. However, instead of being mesmerized, I feel a small amount of caution from her.

Certainly, maybe she's the only one who can give me a good fight in my unreleased state. I imagine if she even bothered to jump in between myself and Galehaut, he wouldn't last 10 seconds under her full-blown assault. It's unfortunate I'm too preoccupied in analyzing the situation to consult Akasha, or I can have several countermeasures ready.

Her child-like face grins at me, like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Well, shall we start?"

* * *

The trotting of horseshoes creates a lull rhythm which causes Mordred's head to drop slightly. Fortunately, she's behind Cecilia, so her head simply nests nicely into the nook of her student's neck. A small 'eep' from the front fails to rejuvenate her, and a deep breath brings the familiar bodily scent of her own student into Mordred's nostrils.

Indeed, if she's not in the front, it's easy to fall asleep like this.

A voice comes from beside her.

"Lady Modred, should we make camp?"

Gawain's face looks concerned, and maybe it's his sincere emotion, but Mordred couldn't care less. For appearances sake, however, she replies in the negative.

"No, just a bit bored, that's all," she smiles lightly. "And please don't address me so formally, Gawain."

He shakes his head.

"Unfortunately, I do not have such luxury," he stiffly answers. "Whether you like it or not, you _are_ our princess. Please take a bit more care for your body."

Cecilia chuckles. "See, Master? I'm not the only one who keeps saying that."

"Uuhhh..." she groans into Cecilia's hair. "I hate this stuff..."

Both Cecilia and Gawain sigh in sync, though with wry smiles on their faces.

Cecilia looks back. "Master, is your arm still bothering you?"

Gawain rises his eyebrows in surprise.

"You are... injured?"

She waves a hand lazily.

"Don't worry too much, jeez... It's similar to a pulled muscle, nothing more."

"But didn't you say you lost feeling in your right arm?" Cecilia argues. "Even now, I kept pinching you and didn't get a response, Master."

Mordred shoots her student a betrayed look.

Gawain roars, "We're stopping right now!"

There's still some time before sundown, but their camp is already completed. The journey is designed around minimal crews to maximize the canvassing for Lancelot and Nimue, so the accommodations they carry are all simple to carry and to build. Mordred grumbles about the taste of food for the umpteenth time, but the other two ignore her in order to marginalize any effort spent arguing.

Altria has sent Gawain along with them under the pretense of 'extra pair of hands', although Mordred saw clean through that and reluctantly accepted the bodyguard assigned to her. The person himself is of no concern to her, because Cecilia trusted him during their earlier battle with the Picts, and he seems to have a soft spot for her student. The only negative she can think of is the restrain of freedom, one of the things she hates the most. However, as Altria was pleading with a sincere expression, she relented.

Really, for all her antagonistic talk in their earliest moments, she couldn't seriously go against her father. She assumed her rebellious tendencies has softened under Shirou's care, and even if she wanted to act more distant, her father's honest efforts and awkward conversations endeared to her somewhat, leading her to soften her stance on Altria.

It's an odd feeling, being coddled so thoroughly, even if her other self's memory was still vivid in her mind. The feeling of abandonment, of betrayal, of hatred, all of it still swirls under the deepest pits in her stomach, waiting to pounce. She might've accepted her own flaws and anger, but it's still an uncomfortable feeling, for sometimes she suspected Altria only acted this way in order to avoid the ending she has warned her father, and not out of genuine love.

Within those negative emotions, the need to be acknowledged and loved by Altria still existed. She thought she was satisfied with Shirou and Cecilia's affections for her, but the hunger for the former desire caused her to feel ashamed of herself. She wanted to see herself as the perfect hero Shirou and she envisioned together, not a selfish and attention-seeking childish woman.

That's why she's feeling rather miffed right now. Receiving all kinds of luxuries just because her station, not who she is, feels just... _wrong_ with her. Will Gawain treat her the same if she's a complete stranger to him? Will her father treat her the same if they aren't related? Right now, she feels her trust hard to come out from her heart for this man in front of her.

Speaking of which, Gawain is conversing happily with her student while she quietly tries to ignore the tortured sounds from her taste buds, regarding the field provisions.

"Miss Cecilia, what do you think of the next planned party?"

"Eh? A party?" Cecilia asks, clearly confused. "I didn't hear about it..."

He nods. "It's still being informally planned, but because winter solstice is coming soon, the nobility usually arranges a party to celebrate the festivities. Of course, with the current political climate, it isn't being announced around with fanfare, but it's a normal tradition in the castle."

"Ah, I see," Cecilia says. "So, what do you mean by your earlier question."

He sits up a little bit straighter, color in his cheeks. "Well, um... I wa- No, I merely wants to ensure your attendance, because of you and Lady Mordred's impact on the kingdom. Y-You are important, I think... No, because it's only my opinion, please don't take it too seriously."

His voice becomes smaller and smaller as he talks. Cecilia still looks confused, but even when she turns to her master for guidance, she only sees a subtle thumbs up from Mordred. Unbeknownst to her, Mordred wants to get them both talking, so they'll ignore her uncouth behavior.

"Well... sounds fun, I guess?" Cecilia hesitantly answers after her master abandoned her. "If we have time, then for sure we'll come."

Gawain beams. "That's great! I'm sure everyone will be happy to meet you!" However, his face darkens immediately. "But... I'm sure there's some of those scum who you'll hate, so please be careful."

Both women think Gawain's words are a warning not to shame the court of Camelot, which is partly true. A part of it is his own selfishness, especially regarding the taller blonde, because he knows best how those nobles will react to two beautiful, innocent ladies thrown into their mix. He promises in his heart he'll keep watch over the two of them, justifying it not as a fit of jealousy, but as a command from his King.

During his lifetime, he has seen plenty beautiful women, all vying for his attention. Perhaps some of their feelings were pure, others corrupted with desire, but looking at them, he couldn't stop the feeling of pity and a slight disgust at the way they presented themselves. There were several interesting individuals, those he considered smart and brave, but too preoccupied with pressure from their surroundings for them to bloom. He spent some time in a relationship with them, and because they had a good mutual understanding, none of them were particularly upset when it didn't work out.

This was the first time he met a female warrior, though. Petulantly, he had always dismissed the idea, his logical side thinking women weren't physically able enough to contend with their male peers, even if their mental abilities could be superior. The battlefield had no use of soldiers which couldn't fight, and women, injured men, along with children were always discounted out. When he heard of Mordred and Cecilia joined their ranks, he was skeptical, even if he didn't show it in the surface.

Yet, the moment they were deployed together in the same unit, Cecilia dazzled him with her prowess.

Her movements were still slightly stiff, inexperienced as she was, but far better than even the best of his men. Her golden hair danced behind her as she rushed alone at the enemy, leaving him to enviously gaze at her back. Her techniques were unconventional, at least to him, with a myriad of weapons she fluidly flung out. Strange, but certainly effective, with she alone taking out a section of the enemy's flank.

That said, what moved his heart the most was her uncompromising stance against someone who she shouldn't even stand a chance to, just so he could have the time to regroup and finish the job.

He saw what was left of her, as Lady Mordred frantically carried her towards treatment. The bloodied mess of... meat, because the shape was barely human anymore, was the person who had sacrificed her body so he and his unit might live. He had no illusion he could do a better job against the person he later found out as an immortal demigoddess, compared to Cecilia, making her achievement shone even brighter.

Even now, as she casually eats the prepared meal and gazes silently at her master, conversing without words, he couldn't help but found her figure to be extremely lovely.

The sight of her unconscious body had elicited a protective desire to well up from within him. A part of him felt the shame of being protected by a woman, yet he couldn't be more proud of her deeds. A relative newbie to warfare, having never run formation or tactics in a large scale, and indeed, her actions were mostly solitary in nature, but effective nevertheless. A woman, at that, running point amongst seasoned veterans and mercenaries, with only a human's body to use.

He has long admired His Majesty's inhuman pedigree, namely the draconic one. As a symbol, dragons were always associated with power, grandeur, and fierceness in battle. Naturally, Lady Mordred inherited this trait, perhaps even thicker than her father, but that same admiration turned into general acceptance and understatement of their abilities. Like how humans envied a bird flying in the air, they also accepted their inability to soar high in the sky.

To put it bluntly, in his opinion, what makes him so attracted to Cecilia is her normality.

Of course, her beauty can be said to be on par with the highest in the lands. Among female martial artist, those without any abilities of sorcery or inhuman blood, he's sure she's also among the top tier. How much effort and pain did she put into her sword? What has she sacrificed in order for her to sit down right here, among two of the Knights of the Round Table?

His musings are cut short by the need to clean their meal, so he silently gets on with it and rest for another day.

The only unfortunate thing is that Gareth now knows of his feelings, which leads her to pressurize him to get hitched.

' _What a pesky sister...'_ he grumbles in his mind.

* * *

"Haa... haa... ha..."

With her sticky platinum-blonde locks spread across the lawn, Gareth pants ehavily after another hellish training session from Bedivere.

' _T-That monster... I know you're miffed because you're overlooked by His Majesty... but come on...!'_

"That will do," Bedivere gruffly finishes his instructions. "After your chores, meet me here again in the afternoon for another round, understood?"

"Ye... Yeah... I-I mean, yes... Sir..."

Without even looking at the half-dead woman, the head royal guard quickly retreats within the confines of Camelot's castle walls.

Taking an opportunity to catch her breath, Gareth begins to mull over what causes her temporary teacher to be so upset.

It's not the fact that Her Highness Princess Mordred was chosen instead of him. It's not the fact that Gawain, Percival, Lamorak, and Bagdemagus were also chosen, each departing into different areas. it's simply because he's stuck here, having to do his job, instead of going out there and being useful for his king.

Inwardly, Gareth sighs in discontent as she, too, wasn't chosen. The only reason she doesn't voice her concerns out loud is because she's currently out of breath.

It was all so sudden.

She came from a royal upbringing, as did her two brothers, Gawain and Gaheris, a close relative to the throne. Like most females in such situation, people expected her to take on a passive role, a role more suited for women, such as household chores, child-rearing, and bedroom techniques. However, ever since she was small, she was enthralled by the stories told to her brothers instead: of knights and heroes, of magic and swordsmanship. She sneaked in her brothers' sword lessons, posing as their brother, until her body grew to the point further disguise was impossible.

At that time, her tutelage was taken by Sir Lancelot.

He, the top knight among the Knights of the Round Table, took notice of her, the youngest girl of a noble family, a girl who shouldn't have any value at all beside being a political bargaining chip, and generously trained her. No matter how hard those nobles pressured him to replace her with one of their sons, no matter the seething glares of the squires who got looked over, he educated her earnestly, in a manner befitting her imagination of a 'perfect knight'.

It would be an understatement to claim that she idolized him.

Then, it all came crashing down in just one night.

She was stationed under Bagdemagus's command in order to learn the thin knight's administrative ways. In short, it was proper schooling, of books and lectures and notes, with her private teacher being one of the Knights of the Round Table. It was boring, as she preferred to stay outside and move her body, but as Lancelot deemed it necessary, she'd do anything to earn his praise.

It only made the news of his betrayal hurt even more.

Amidst the confusion and panic, her apprenticeship ended up being shuffled into Bedivere's hand. He was hard, but fair, and she respected him greatly, but he's not Lancelot, and never would be.

She rolled around in the grass, letting some green blades get stuck between her armor plates. It'll enrage Bedivere, who's a stickler for discipline, but she can't care less right now. All she wanted is an escape from this reality, back to the peaceful past where she could spend her days happily practicing swordsmanship and horse riding, then return home to both her brothers and have a wonderful dinner.

In a way, she envied those who got chosen to search for Lancelot and Guinevere, and didn't envy them for the same time. She wanted to see her master at least one final time, to hear his reasons straight from his mouth. If, after that, he was still the rebel everyone pictured him as, then her heart would no longer had any hesitation in opposing him. If he was wrongly accused, she'd fight for his justice in order to restore his reputation and innocence.

But then, could she actually do it? If, it turned out, he was a traitor to the crown and nation, could she aim her blade at his throat with the intent to kill? Could she deny her own master's reason and strike him down?

Just thinking about it nearly makes her head smoke.

All in all, it's both a good and bad thing she wasn't chosen in the end.

* * *

" **Ho? It is rare for you to come, Queen of Shadows."**

"What? Am I forbidden to?" Scáthach smiles playfully, lightly stepping on top of the water's surface.

Nyneve's side of the Lake has no real definition or boundary between the land and the sky, and since she's currently standing on top of what seems like a water surface, Scáthach guesses it has no real connection to laws of reality either. Granted, her domain is much of the same caliber, a place where the impossible and the absurd happens almost daily, constantly evolving to keep up with the flow of time.

The person she's talking to still hasn't shown her face, so the demigoddess assumes Nyneve is currently occupied. The Ladies of the Lake are comparably amicable to other dwellers of the Reverse Side of the World, though their territory is still deadly for any outsiders not recognized by either of them. Lately, there's been some shift between the twins, causing their domain to stretch out and separate. Scáthach is here not to investigate, but to simply observe and relax from her earlier battle.

A little bird has told her Nyneve is the benefactor of the homunculus who managed to wound her so heavily, so naturally she's intrigued. Despite their age, and the other Insiders, each of them rarely interacts with the other outside their domain, though there's not an explicit no-entry rule between them. Some are quite human-like in their relationship, in a sense they acknowledge and visit each other several times in a century, but most are aloof to each other.

Scáthach and Nyneve, and Nimue, for that matter, aren't antagonistic to each other in nature. She rules over the dead, while the twins often meddles among the living. Ever since her students passed away as heroes, she has longed to face another bright talent from the following generations, and it seems the Ladies of the Lake has delivered on their creations.

She hasn't fought the black knight, but watching his battle with the radiant homunculus turned her off. His sword and body were mighty, but his spirit has left his swings, and as such, weak. What she's looking for is the real hunger for battle and victory, a determination which won't back down, no matter what, to achieve one's goals. What goals they have, she could care less, but what's important is the size of the flame behind that gaze.

' _And she's cute too, so it's a bonus...'_

" **I grow apprehensive if you arrive with such impure desires, my friend."**

Scáthach chuckles. "No, no, don't get the wrong idea. She... I haven't met anyone of her quality since my students died in battle, so please cut me some slack."

" **Wasn't one of your students also your lover?"**

"That kid?" Scáthach snorts. "I love him as my child, but it's not my fault he was captivated by my charms. I taught him better than that, and he still fell for it." Grumbling, she says in a low voice, "That damn mutt..."

" **Of course, whatever you say..."**

"...I think I'm going to get angry."

She plops down rudely on the liquid surface, eyes boring down to a place somewhere underneath the waters. As she predicted, a pair of warm gaze starts to surface from right in front of her lap, the surface bulging outwards as if something is pushing it fro below. Slowly, the surface tension finally breaks, revealing the beautiful fairy encased in obsidian marble.

' _Oh, wait... That's her flesh? I forgot...'_

Glaring at Nyneve, she says, "No, honestly, I wasn't here to do what you think. It's just plain curiosity, this game you and your sister are playing."

The black eyes narrow in irritation. **"It's not a game, my dear friend."**

The pressure emanating from the Lady of the Lake is suffocating.

There's always many speculations regarding the true strength of these dwellers from the Inside, either by humans or their own kind. How will I fare against the others? Am I stronger than them? Can I kill them? All these questions circulates deep inside their mind, rarely showing themselves, but present nonetheless.

Right here, right now, in Nyneve's territory, Scáthach is sure she's in trouble.

Thus, she backs off.

"I understand," she nods. "What I don't get is how did you get that doomed homunculus to do your bidding? If it was me, picking someone with better fate would be a no-brainer."

Scáthach receives an unusual answer to her inquiry: laughter.

Well, Nyneve isn't the type to bellow to her belly in happiness, nor is she someone who rolls on the floor with glee. Her laughter, like everything she does, is charmingly beautiful to hear, possessing the grace and power to bring down mortals to their knees. Combined with the effect of her territory, Scáthach finds herself weakening under the bell-like voice.

" **Fufufu..."** she smiles lightly. **"Do you think that someone's fate cannot be changed, Scáthach?"**

"Oh, are you one of those types?" Scáthach replies in a mocking tone. "Well, to your question, no, I don't think so."

She closes her eyes momentarily, replaying her students' final moments. As she saw the two of them killing each other, the sound of blades piercing flesh almost torn her apart. The cursed weapons and skills she gifted and taught them to achieve greatness only brought ruin in the end. In the surface, and in her head, she knew their shortcomings came only from their own shortsightedness, being in possession of mortal blood.

Why can't humans see beyond their lifetime? Surely, with the increase in scholars and artists, their culture should've been advanced enough to plan centuries ahead? Instead, their desires cloud their judgement, their impulse forcing their bodies to act on it with haste. Indeed, she has seen this happen many times, so was she the foolish one when she decided to neglect the possibility of it happening to her students?

In the end, none of them escaped their tragic fate, all of it created from the culmination of their deeds and their parents' sins. Having seen it all, how can she hope otherwise now? That's the main reason she lost interest in the mortal world. If everything runs to a script, why bother sticking around when she possesses the ability to view the spoilers all this time? Her efforts mean nothing before the weight of fate...

Nyneve's bewitching figure shakes her head, the impossibly thin strands of solid black flutters along her movement.

" **You answered in the negative, yet it is still the thing you desired most of all,"** she says, her face looking disappointed. **"Why can you not be honest with yourself? There is naught any existences here bar us."**

"It's because I'm a realist, unlike you, Nyneve," Scáthach spits out. "What I desire... is already impossible precisely because I was the one who blocked it off myself through my achievements. I don't think the World will be too gracious to change its mind for a 'small existence' like myself."

Chuckling, Nyneve kindly speaks, **"You see too little of yourself, unchanged from your younger days. Have you not consider your 'curse' to be a 'gift' instead? Many teachers would love to have your immortality, simply to guide more and more students down their perceived correct path."**

"And to see them die? To outlive those I think my own offspring, my own flesh and blood? No, thank you," the demigoddess replies quickly, her temper rising.

" **Of course. We already had this conversation before once, thus I would not expect you to change your mind. We** _ **are**_ **immortals, after all, and stubborn ones at that,"** Nyneve says, lightly laughing. **"That said, have you not felt it? How we have been graced with the presence of a Heroic Vessel?"**

"What."

The news shatter her opinion as easily as herself breaking glass.

"Heroic... Vessel..."

The words roll of her tongue weakly.

Of course, the phrase isn't unfamiliar to her. Alaya is clearly up to something the past several millennia, and there's several blips in the flow of time and space large enough to serve as evidence these... _things_ existed. During her lifetime, though, not once has she witnessed one in direct action, as has her peers, so that particular program has been put on the back shelf of their thoughts.

The legends are clear.

From what she can gather, these Vessels serve one, and only one purpose: to save humanity from its eventual destruction. She's seen it with her own Mystic Eyes, how no matter what Alaya does, eventually, human beings will continue being whittled down, down, down, onto the last man, and even he, with all his powers, is no match for the oncoming force of natures, courtesy of the Ultimate Ones.

Alaya has created these beings to achieve one goal: prevent it, and ensure her survival for eternity.

In her own opinion, what Alaya does isn't sinister in any way. Alaya is the creation of humanity's hopes and dreams, and rules over them caringly. Of course, its methods may be considered ruthless by a human's standards, but its intentions are sincere. Such honesty warrants her respect, even if it means Alaya has created individuals which can harm herself, and other non-human beings.

The Heroic Vessels serve to sever that thread of fate binding Alaya and humanity.

With that realization, most of the Insiders have decided a hands-off approach regarding human beings. After the fall of the Age of Heroes, supernatural involvement in the Present World plummets to an all-time low, distancing humanity from their previous benefactors. This gap continues to grow wider across the ages, even when humans realize they need to return back to their former glory and start working to reduce it.

Only these Heroic Vessels, being permanently connected to Alaya, can draw humanity's full strength, focused on several individuals.

If one such existence is here, now, in this plane of time and space, then things will _really_ get interesting.

' _It may be worth it leaving my domain, after all...'_

"Say..."

" **Yes?"**

"Any chance you know where this Heroic Vessel is located?"

" **Unfortunately, I have not the slightest inclination to tell you, so no."**

"Guess so."

It's clear Nyneve favors this Heroic Vessel, and he or she is an important piece to the fairy. Being always connected to her own twin, this method of secrecy is somewhat lacking, but she understands her opponent's stance clearly. The effort she'll put into tracking him or her down will only make it more fun to her, and hopefully, the homunculus and Alaya's servant is connected...

...so she can fight them both and die.

Without asking for permission, she disassembles her physical body and escapes Nyneve's territory.

" **Oh, dear..."** she sighs, turning to inform her champion what trouble is seeking him now.

* * *

"Gwen... Gwen..."

Lancelot's hoarse voice repeats like a broken record, but his monotonous tone doesn't match his satisfied expression. His beloved is currently stroking his head on her lap tenderly, like how they always did, so how could he be unhappy? Sure, Guinevere's facial features are a bit strange, but it's a small matter compared to the bliss he feels.

He closes his eyes in happiness, unaware of Guinevere's trembling other hand.

She repeatedly plays with her fingers in anger and frustration, mostly directed at her kidnapper.

It was pitch black back then, her last memory of Camelot. She remembered dismissing Vivian to sleep, after they had a personal talk, and after that she knew no more. She realized something was wrong when she couldn't wake up, the sudden transition between dreams and reality suddenly disappeared from her ability to stay conscious. Instead, she floats in a lucid space, powerless in a limbo, until she was allowed to open her eyes and function normally.

The occasion she woke up to disgusted her.

Not only she found herself being rudely restrained to a table, admittedly a far more comfortable one than the ones she'd seen inside some torture chambers, she saw her lover standing beside a familiar face.

Vivian... and Lancelot, standing together beside her with seemingly no intentions to release her. One look in their eyes and she understood that much.

For an instant, she thought of yelling and screaming and struggling and calling them ugly names, but she calmed herself down. If Lancelot was here, then wasn't it because he longed for her, and couldn't help his desires to keep her to himself? She was flattered, but also confused, since she never pegged Vivian to like any of the Knights of the Round Table.

Merlin's students, in general, tended to look down on the Knights, simply for being in the same political standing as them, yet unable to wield any Magecraft. Of course, in a real battle, they were right in underestimating the Knights, because the depth of Magecraft was unfathomable to Guinevere and the Knights, being from a normal, magi-less background. Obviously, all of the magi had enough pride to stop them from acting like arrogant fools in front of the court, but the politeness stopped there.

So, as she pondered the possible reasons for Vivian to willingly help Lancelot in her own idealized scenario, a monstrous smile appeared on the female magus's face.

It was... inhuman.

The Queen used the term 'monstrous', yet she herself wasn't sure whether the term was appropriate. Rather, the smile possessed sinister qualities far enough from the human realm it gave her chills down to the bone. She started trembling in her shackles, but as soon as it appeared, it vanished like mist in the afternoon.

After seeing that, she realized something.

The person in front of her... _wasn't_ Vivian.

Her violet hair swayed momentarily in a display of power, before her lips parted to exhale a soft ineligible tone.

From the corners of her eyes, Guinevere saw Lancelot moving to attention, so rigidly it's as if she's watching a crudely-made golem, before stiffly walking outside.

She couldn't hold her shock anymore.

"What have you done to him?! You... witch! Unhand me!"

Her former compatriot simply smiled, before the Queen's consciousness went black, despite her best attempt to resist it.

The next time she woke up, she was already free of her bindings, simply resting on a well-made, sparsely-furnished bed.

She sat up immediately, performing checks on her body and mind. She knew of Vivian's original capabilities, and if this... entity could take over Merlin's best student, how powerful could it be in reality? This fear caused her to check with even more scrutiny, but before she could finish, the door to the room she was in opened.

"Lancelot!"

The person called smiled to her in response, but as he opened his lips to form a response, a weird expression formed on his face. She saw his handsome features contort in confusion, as if trying to exert a force against something invisible, before giving up and settling on a goofy grin.

"Hu... hungry?"

At the inquiry, Guinevere could only cover her mouth with her hands.

' _Oh, God...'_

"...put here," he said, stumbling over his voice. He gently laid down a platter of food, which looked good, but her appetite was long gone.

Before he could say another word, she leapt into his bosom.

"Lancelot..." she whispered. Caressing his face with her hand, she could only muster pained continuations.

"My God... she's too cruel..."

Again, he tried to form words, but failed to do so.

"...fine."

His calm voice stabbed into her heart, making her swallow a bitter lump down her throat.

\- Clap. Clap.

"You...!" Guinevere spat out the words.

The person who inhibited Vivian's body sneered, before waving her hand. In her arms, she felt Lancelot's muscles go stiff, and with extreme reluctance, let him proceed with his duties. He awkwardly walked out of the room, leaving the two women together.

"Do you enjoy my work?"

The blood rushed to Guinevere's head.

She's barehanded, but her temper had snapped long ago. Without care, she leapt at the woman, eager to cause her some pain. Deep down, she knew this was a waste of time and energy, since there's no way she, an untrained woman, could take on this... _inhuman_ thing, but the pain in her heart caused her to explode.

Her charge stopped after crashing into an invisible barrier, sending her reeling back. A wave of Vivian's fingers summoned several thin vines, which entangled themselves onto Guinevere's four limbs, lifting her in the air.

"You bitch!" She roared, her manners already forgotten, "What have you done to him?! Speak!"

"Now, now," the magus coyly spoke, gingerly stepping forward like a child hopping over some stones happily. She tapped Guinevere's cheeks, seemingly as a gesture of affection, but Guinevere spat out a glob of saliva to her face instead. The liquid instantly evaporated mere milimeters from Vivian's skin, her expression unchanged.

"Ara, how rude..." she spoke in that hatefully playful tone. "My Queen, please do not be alarmed. Haven't I accompli-"

"I'm not your queen, monster!" Guinevere shouted back. "That body... Where is Vivian?! You won't fool me, bastard!"

Her next words choked as she stared into the woman's eyes.

\- Static.

"U-Ugh..." she groaned in pain.

Those eyes... like the smile she witnessed earlier, weren't a human's eyes. It wasn't laced with killing intent or malice, but what's the most frightening was how far away from a human's comprehension that gaze was. Guinevere's mortal brain started to break down from the strain, as she delved deeper and deeper into those voided eyes...

\- Static. Static. Static.

Her mind was splitting in half. Her mind was being drilled of holes. Her mind was being electrocuted. Her mind was melting as if drenched in acid. Her mind was bruised by the hammer pounding inside. Her mind was screaming as those eyes showed her things... many, many things, things _not from this world_...

"Ugh... argh...!"

[Be grateful, wench.]

Her voice was speaking directly inside her head. No, it was grafting itself into her skull and her very soul, binding her with thorned ropes and tearing up her spiritual defense. Her voice, spoken with a calm tone, without any effort, had ripped her apart.

\- Static! Static! Static!

[Do not worry. I will not harm you, because my new servant will self-destruct if I did. Truly, love is a wonderful thing, no?]

Her tone was genial and smooth, completely devoid of any malice or threats. Yet, Guinevere felt as if her ears are bleeding out from hearing it.

[Now, be a good girl and act like the usual you. I am sure you will succeed, because pretending to be the quiet, impactless woman should be second-nature to you, no? Please watch here as I slaughter your official family.]

"Hngghhh! Ugh... You... I-I won't...!" Guinevere squeezed out whatever words she can, but only managed to let out several unintelligible phrase.

[Ah, I cannot wait to see your happy face as I set the scene...!] Lifting Guinevere's face by her chin, Nimue said gleefully, [Is this not what you wished? For you to live happily forever after with your lover, just like the ending of those fairy tales? I am ridding you of the obstacles in your way, so smile!]

The powerful thumb of the Lady of the Lake pinched Guinevere's cheeks, forcing her lips to spread and form a perversion of a smile. The immaculate teeth were shut tight, giving the impression of a full-blown grin, but the sound of molars grinding with each other ruined the image.

[Ah, you must be confused of your lovers actions. Well, do not blame me, because it is he who requested that power, and so I generously bestowed it upon him. He understood the risks, and power that great will always come with a price. So, please treat him well for me.]

Nimue deliberately left out the part of Lancelot's lack of verbal agreement to their deal. During his exile, he dreamed of the strength to resist his relationship with Guinevere, even though he never voiced out his thoughts due to his lingering loyalty. She took a sliver of his desires and contorted it to fit her image, giving birth to the crazed black knight.

Sadly, it seemed the armor needed a few more improvements. The way Mordred defeated him was too easy, and even if it allowed Lancelot, a human, to compete with a dragon-born homunculus, the performance was still not enough. She wanted to see the petite blonde bathed with her own blood, and witness the rage emanating from the Heroic Vessel.

The prospect of chaos sent a pleasurable shiver to her imaginary spine.

She tapped Guinevere's cheeks lovingly.

[Now, I have somewhere to attend to, so have fun!]

Those words still linger in Guinevere's mind even now, as she relaxes with the man she loves on her lap.

She barely holds herself back from showing any tenseness to Lancelot. The feeling of shame and helplessness back then frustrates her to no end. Why couldn't she break free? Why couldn't she endure? If only she was trained in military arts or Magecraft, perhaps she could do something to Nimue back then. Instead, her body, as well-kept as it was, was a feeble human's in the end.

She cursed herself for her weakness, which caused Lancelot to take extreme measures to take her. She hates herself for her weakness, which no doubt creates chaos in Camelot now. She loathes herself for her indecision and her betrayal, which would scar Altria's heart.

Because of her, everyone she loves is now irreparably hurt and damaged.

However, no matter how hard she tries, a lone tear still makes it way to drop onto Lancelot's cheek.


	22. Unconfidential Conversation

**Hello, everyone! Welcome back to the next installment of this series! Right, first things first: mailbag replies.**

 **Rankin den Merthyr: I agree and appreciate your criticism. Because this is still a new story for me, I am still testing a few things out here and there. I am trying hard to smoothen out the scene transitions, but I feel it's only something I'll ever manage to do at an acceptable level after more experience writing. Thanks for the critique! I hope you still enjoy the story.  
**

 **Now, there's quite an important announcement, and don't worry, it won't contain words like 'hiatus', 'need a break', 'IRL', and other stuff. Aside from the increasingly large amount of Glossary entries, I will post any new characters that aren't original to the Nasuverse and their approximated stats and history. It won't be straight after the character/s is/are introduced, maybe one or two chapters down the line, but I hope it'll fill some of the gaps I may have left out, intentionally or unintentionally, of the story. I may use some of their traits later down the story, but don't expect it to impact much on the progression. Maybe a few character development and fleshing out here and there, but it won't take much space at center stage.**

 **All in all, hope you enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: Is it just me, or there's an increasing amount of F/GO-related hentai materials? Is this official from you, Nasu? I'd do it if I were you...**

* * *

Looking at the man standing beside her, Filvis is confused.

What kind of man will accompany someone to a slaughterhouse? What kind of man extends a hand to a death-row convict, whose fate is already sealed? What kind of man, out of nowhere, decides to save a complete stranger?

Oh, she knows what the elven elders are doing. The impact of Heroic Vessel SHIROU's battle was massive, but still within a tolerable range, albeit barely. For a tribe which champions their own race, and those like them, any action which harms Gaia, and to an extent them, to save humans is akin to someone driving over a human being with their horse to avoid killing a small puppy or kitten. In other words, it's a direct insult to their morality and sense of logic.

Cheryl, the white-haired young leader of the tribe, smiles angelically as she reads Shirou his faults.

"Now, Mr. Convict, do you plead not guilty for using Gaia's life force, and to an extent _our_ own, in a personal battle with the demon called Galehaut?"

Shirou's face is calm, as is his voice in rebuttal.

"Not guilty."

Cheryl's cherubic features beams even brighter.

"Do you plead not guilty in prioritizing the lives of those _insects_ we call humans, instead of serving the higher order?"

"Not guilty."

"Well, then this court is over!" She cheerfully says, "Will the executioner be ready!"

"May I speak in my defense?"

"No," the girl flatly refuses.

' _Kangaroo court...'_ Filvis thinks while gritting her teeth.

Cheryl suddenly perks up, and grins again.

"Ah, since they're gonna be a while, then why don't you do so, er... Sheerou? Is that how I read it?" The last sentence is spoken in whisper to the person next to her, though with the enhanced hearing of everyone present, it's as loud as a normal speaking tone.

"Now, hurry up! I'm bored!"

The panel stifles their smile at their leader's childish antics.

Again, Filvis can only simmer in silence. Those charges are complete bullshit, because the elves has long since abandoned their antiquated ways and mingle with humans. Oh, they still regard them as second-class citizens, but that's leagues better than their original view of humans as 'insects', as Cheryl put it earlier. In the end, she's sure Shirou won't be convicted of any wrongdoing at all, maybe in exchange of some favors.

They're here because of her.

A crime against a fellow elf is considered severe, because of how closely knit their tribe works. She, who has fatally injured two, is seen as a bloodthirsty traitor who has severed relations and protection of the elves. They're keen to punish her for her deeds, and pounced once she's detected, which is on Shirou's side, simply strolling by.

They are willing to drag a Heroic Vessel, a being perhaps only Cheryl can fight against, just to get to her.

Seemingly unaware of Filvis's anger, Shirou declares, "Is my actions that detestable, when Galehaut himself was also willing to tear Gaia's body in his attack? It was an action of self-defense, not entirely because I favored the humans. He tried to kill me, so I killed him in retaliation. He mistakenly assumed I would just grovel and die if he took the human army hostage, and he paid that mistake with his life."

Of course, the part of his aloofness regarding the human army is a lie. Having spent many lifetimes negotiating and ass-licking his way through various problems, he became skilled in lying, much as he detests the act now. His gaze pans across the room, at the sea of glittering golden hair and the occasional odd colors, taking note of the individuals he thinks interesting.

"So?" Cheryl blows her fringes up and down, her face bored. "What you chose to do was instead of killing him quickly, and then deal with the flying piece of giant rock, you ripped Gaia's strength to annihilate him and the attack. Thinking of the circumstances, I can't think anything about this other than a deliberate disregard of the World."

"It was in the heat of the moment, Milady," he lowers his head slightly. "I didn't think that far, and reacted in reflex. Of course, we're always smarter in hindsight."

The last sentence is meant as a jab to Cheryl's attitude, but the young girl could care less.

"Fuu..." She ponders his words for a moment, eyes drooping down. "So, you're claiming manslaughter?"

"Yes."

"Gaia isn't applicable under that term, though, so cut the crap and say the truth."

"I am being truthful," he insists. "If I may be rude, it's you who's been stalling, Milady."

"Humu? Whatever are you talking about?"

Like a child caught stealing cookies, none present can believe her made-up innocence.

He smiles calmly, his body exuding an aura of confidence. "Please beware, I won't let you have your way unobstructed."

The petite elf laughs, her voice clear as a pristine lake.

"Well! Why don't you try and explain, Mister Smartass?"

I'm taken aback at her use of informal language, especially for someone of her stature, but one glance at her tired attendant explains everything. It seems not only she's a handful in front of strangers, but also when she's with her own household as well. I guess that much, but I initially refrained from making any assumptions because of her resemblance to an individual EMIYA holds dear.

The fact it turns out I'm right doesn't reduce the heaviness of my sigh.

"Your timing was terrible, for a start," I explain, catching everyone's attention. "If you're really after my head, which isn't unlikely, then you'd send a force to detain me immediately after my battle, not a full two days later. You waited until I was alone with Filvis to act pretty much shouted out your true target."

I shrug my shoulders in resignation. "Really, if you're a bard, then this part will be like the part where the author loses inspiration and tries to rush things along with an awkward scene transitions and character introductions."

Raising one finger in a familiar pose, I continue, "Plus, you know full well you're the only one in the area who can challenge me, so your efforts are moot."

My speech is replied with stunned silence from the crowd. Whether it's amazement, confusion, or both, I'm not sure, but I hit the mark perfectly.

Finally, Cheryl speaks, her smile slightly dimmer than before.

"Ah, so now we've heard from the defendant. This case will be processed, and continues in a few days. Objections?"

Of course, any sound from my part will just be ignored, so I stay silent.

"Now, will Defendant Filvis step forward!"

I hear Filvis squeak as two lean male elves roughly hoists her to her feet. Narrowing my eyes in displeasure, one of the two guards replies my stare, as if saying 'What're you gonna do?' to me. My companion's eyes lack fear, and there's only a pathetic attempt of a struggle that shows her reluctance. She has resigned to her fate, and I was the one who facilitated this outcome.

In my mind, I've made my decision.

* * *

"I don't understand you."

I bitterly smile at Filvis's words.

"You... why are you so insistent in doing this?"

"Why are you so insistent in getting yourself killed?" I retort back, although I don't have the mood to bicker like this now.

"Because it's right!" She exclaimed furiously. "I... I did something wrong, and I escaped punishment. It's justice... Isn't that what you're upholding?"

I shake my head. "That's where you and the others misunderstand me."

Her eyes widen at my reply.

"Justice... is a simple moniker for anything the rulers deem 'the law'," I sigh. "Because its creators are human, even with multiple heads tackling the same problem, it's fundamentally flawed. They claim it's 'objective' and 'fair', but the application of it is as far from those words as it can be.

"What I uphold... isn't what they call 'justice'. They may call me biased, or selfish, or a simple idiot, but what I wish for is for everyone to equally receive salvation, in proportion of their deeds and needs. A dream many say impossible and fatal, but... hey, that's just me. And that's why I'm here, if you insist on asking again."

"What about me?"

Filvis's voice lowers in volume, almost to the point of a faint whisper.

I hate the looks in her eyes. Those defeated, self-condemning stare, with a weak body posture and hanged head, doesn't suit her beauty at all. The person who I grow to admire during our trip here is nowhere to be found, and a tired convict has taken her place.

Gently, I lift her chin with my fingers, revealing her quivering lips and nervous eyes.

"Especially you."

She roughly turns her head to one side, knocking my finger off.

"You always say those unfair words."

"It's true, though," I reply, lightly chuckling. "I said it to you before, right? If not for you, then the current Cecilia and Mordred won't exist. Meeting them... I was happy, you know? Having those two girls really livened up my days, making every time we saw each other the more precious instead."

I grab her shoulders, preventing her from scooting back to the corner of this confining room.

"It's a feeling I want to share with you as much as possible. You deserve it, not... not this kind of treatment."

Heaving myself up, I say to her resolutely, "That's why I'm going to defend you as your attorney from now on. Don't speak to anyone else, got it?"

Having received her confirmation, I can now think of stuff to say in front of those elves. Judging from their personalities, it'd become an easier job than I feared. Cheryl is slightly bloodthirsty, and prone to childish wanton actions, but she's not the leader of the elves for nothing. I suspect her immaturity is a simple cover for a sharp and ingenious mind inside, waiting to catch me off guard.

That said, I'm not sure of their conviction to punish Filvis. They certainly have the resources and techniques to hunt her down even from a few years ago, when I assume the previous leader before Cheryl was still in charge. I mean, how hard could it be? They had a legion of officers far more powerful than Filvis herself, and no human or magus could really stop them if they went all-out to capture her. So, the question is why now?

One of the answers which comes to me immediately is they want contact, either with me or Filvis, in which the current situation needs. I don't know what it is that can cause them to take such a decision, but I guess it has something to do with my ongoing struggles against Nimue. The other... well, I can be completely wrong, and they _really_ want us both dead.

That thought is not sobering at all.

Filvis silently nods, though her expression still holds a trace of disobedience. Oh, well, there's no sense in forcing her to do what I want. She'll learn the ropes herself, and hopefully, any mistakes from her part can be covered splendidly. Our relationship is improving, but the ultimate trust between true partners is still not there yet, no matter how I wish otherwise. That said, I'm being a hypocrite too, because I don't trust this girl to be able to save herself.

I exhale tiredly.

This obstacle is too sudden, coming at me without giving me any room to breathe. Even if I've experienced this stuff before, but the thought of being helplessly dancing on someone's palm never sits right with me. All I can hope for is for the elves to show me something of a lead, so I can overturn the situation right back at them.

Maybe... Ellis? If it's her, and perhaps her husband as well, maybe I can extent both our lifelines and escape unharmed. It'd be difficult under heavy supervision, but I'm hoping they'll be the one who visits us soon.

\- Knock. Knock.

' _Speak of the devil...'_

The noise of metal clanging against metal causes us to both turn in unison, revealing one of the guards accompanying two people wearing a pair of thick hooded overalls. Judging from the biometric analysis from my Eyes, the two are exactly the ones who I've been waiting for.

The guard bows, and leaves the area.

A rough, young male voice speaks out.

"I don't like your eyes, Mister."

"Sorry," I apologize. "Force of habit."

"No, that's fine." A chuckle can be heard from underneath the hood, saying, "At first, it's just jealousy for eyeing my wife, but I realized otherwise after that."

Ellis chides, "Jeez, Imina..."

Her blush can be heard through her voice, as she pinches his arm tightly.

Both of them raises their hoods, revealing two familiar faces from the time at the gathering.

Now that I have a closer look at him, this person called Imina is nothing special physically.

Of course, compared to a regular human being, his prowess perhaps equals the upper echelons of the Knights of the Round Table. His posture isn't exceptionally tall or muscular, but the tight, lean muscles wrapping his skeletal frame hides a tremendous amount of explosive strength. His unique sword is hung from his waist, emitting a suffocating aura of bloodlust.

Other than his sword, though, his appearance is the most normal of the most normal. Dark hair with lightly tanned skin, neutral eyes, and a generally friendly atmosphere; if Cecilia or someone else passes him on the street, they may've not notice him at all. Those sensitive to others' aura and magic power may induce a reaction, but his magic energy is not much thicker than a normal human, making him difficult to make out without his sword.

I've seen and Traced his sword secretly during our first meeting, and for the second time, I can barely contain my disgust at the process it requires to function.

There are many swords in history crafted from a person's sacrifice, leading to a drama-like legend in its history. Kanshou and Bakuya are a good example, and this sword is no different. Really, despite my experience, I still find these processes revolting and somewhat pitiful, sometimes even unbearable to experience.

Imina's sword is purely made out of Ellis's blood.

As I relive its history, all I see is gallons upon gallons of blood being piled and compressed on top of each other. Ellis's physical pain as she painstakingly drained her own lifeline and Imina's emotional agony as he watched her, helpless to stop it, is vividly displayed through my Magecraft. Indeed, their love for each other is beautiful to experience, but from a sword's point of view, it's nothing but horrifying.

Its ability is also not that powerful. Among weapons I know elves and other beings are capable of forging, its status as a Mystic Code perhaps won't exceed C-rank. However, what's most terrifying, if I have to face him one day, is its limitless potential to surpass its own rank.

Ah, I'm droning on and on. I should focus on the two of them, try and find out their purpose coming here.

"Why... Why are you here?" Filvis slowly asks.

The two of them snaps to attention, having spent time in their own little world earlier. Ellis answers, with the tips of her ears tinged red in embarassment, "Well... I only want to say a thing I think Mr. Heroic Vessel here already knows, but I'll say it anyway."

Looking at Filvis making a confused expression, she says, "I think you may have guessed already, but both of you aren't in any real danger of being executed."

"E-EE-EEE-EEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHH?!"

Luckily, I Reinforced my hearing at the same time of Filvis's surprised scream. The two outside the door, however, aren't so lucky.

While they are rubbing their ears, Filvis falls to her knees, sprawled on the floor.

"Ha... Hawuuu..."

It seems the tension of being a convict has taken grip on her emotional stability. Now that it's gone, like a stretched rubber band, the recoil of relaxation has sapped her strength to stand up.

After only a small moment, she looks up to me.

"You... You knew this whole time?!"

"Not really," I try to diffuse the situation. "I have some suspicions, but nothing concrete. If I do know, don't you think I'll make the effort to be here?"

"B-But...!"

Gently, I scoop my arms under her armpits to lift her back onto her seat. Her body is getting lighter these last few days, since her apetite has also taken a blow, so I can do whatever I please for now. I grow worried for her lately, perhaps unnecessarily, but I'm a nosy person like that.

She relaxes into my arms, and leans her forehead towards my chest.

"Sorry... I was... s-scared..."

Patting her head, I say softly, "It's fine, it's fine."

Lifting her face, I tease her, "Now, do you want to continue this in front of them?"

Pointing at the couple behind me with my thumb, I flash her a teasing smirk. Realizing our position relative to each other, her pale skin blushes red, before her small fists hammer onto my chest.

"Eww! No, no! You idiot! S-Stay back!"

Imina lets out a snort, but refrains himself from going into a full-blown laughter due to his wife's glare. That said, she's also making an amused face, so their efforts are moot. Filvis pouts under the atmosphere, her well-sculpted facial features creating an adorable air to it.

Suddenly, a realization dawns upon her.

"Wait..." she darkly says, "you knew this whole time?"

Her gaze is painfully dark, intent on causing real harm this time. Understandable, because with her logic, I have just played her around and leading her like an animal to a slaughterhouse, trampling on her 'honor' and 'pride' all this time. Even I can get angry if treated like that.

"No," I sharply cut her off, "don't you look at me like that. It's a suspicion, and I'm not the kind of guy who jumps up scared with every risk I take and cower in a safe place instead. I admit, _maybe_ I should've shared my thoughts with you..."

"Of course you should!"

"...but if I do, will you so readily believe me? I believed in your feelings, of your guilty sense of responsibility. If I said what I thought, which wouldn't necessarily happen, wouldn't I just be playing you all the same?"

I take a seat on the floor in front of her.

"I walked into this room fully aware of the risks, and fully prepared to protect you, Filvis. Don't misunderstand that, please."

Her shoulders tremble at my words. Her raven bangs covers her eyes, so I can't read her expression completely, but at least for now, she seems to have calmed down.

"Fine. I'll accept it."

"Ah, great!" Ellis claps cheerfully, eager to dispel the heavy air. "Now, as we don't have much else to say, so do you guys want to ask anything instead?"

"H-Hauuu..."

Weakly exhaling her tension out of her body, Filvis shakes her head.

"No, I'm fine... Geez, my heart is still beating fast... It's no good."

I Trace her body, revealing the frayed nerve muscles and imbalanced hormone currently raging inside her. Silently, I berate myself for losing control and rebuking her harshly earlier. I mean, come on, compared to me, who have experienced many things throughout the years, she can be called a newborn baby in comparison. Yet, because of her abilities and standing, I disregarded her feelings as a woman earlier, expecting her to act with her usual warrior-magus heart.

Really, has Mordred's pain taught me nothing? I have to introspect myself later when we've gotten out of this mess.

"Hahaha, Miss Filvis is a very obedient girl, aren't you?"

"Hmph, if I may be rude, you're no better, Lady Ellis."

"Fufufu..."

The threat of death will always strike a primordial form of fear into every living being's heart, no matter how they prided themselves with self-control. Yes, even including myself. I fear death not because of death itself, but I fear what will come after my death. Every single time a Heroic Vessel finishes his/her duty under a cycle or a lifetime, they 'retire', or in the eyes of the comrades they made, 'died'. And every single time, without fail, the next generation will screw everything up, forcing Alaya to deploy another Heroic Vessel to try and steer humanity back onto its proper course.

Sometimes, I wonder how long will this tenure end. Of course, I knew of the risk and challenges when I signed up for this, even if I wasn't completely lucid back then. But, still... knowing all the good deeds you perform, so much so that they affect those around you, will be undone in a few generations just as easily as taking a candy from a baby doesn't sit well for me.

Mulling over it won't solve the things in the now, however.

After another quick continuation of our lively chat, we part ways to see where the future takes us.

* * *

"Big sis, big sis! Over here!"

"Hahaha! Come here, you little scoundrel!"

"Boo! It's actually me, big sis! Here!"

"Hey, come here, you brats!"

"Kyaaa! Big sis is scary~ "

"Got you! Heh!"

Looking at the heir to the throne having so much fun with the children, Gawain can't help but massage the bridge of his nose. Cecilia is standing beside him with an understanding look, but offers no actual consolation. That said, the elderly sister from the church beside her is estatic, so much so her weathered eyes are shining childishly.

"My God, what a lovely girl she is..." the sister mutters, loud enough to be heard by her two acquaintences.

"Is that so? We are honored, sister," Gawain says humbly, before continuing, "Although I have a headache now..."

The wrinkled face shows him a wry smile.

"My apologies if my words come out uncouthly, Sir Knight, but... Royalty just doesn't mingle with us down here. Having her here... I can only imagine how much the children will grow up idolizing her."

Cecilia nods. "Well, that's my master's strong point, I guess. She may be quirky to look at from the outside, but her charm will get to you sooner or later."

"Hm, hm."

Agreeing vigorously, the sister lifts her head to the sky to check the time, and realizing it's not yet the time to call off the children, turns to her companions.

"Would the two of you like some cold water?"

"That'd be lovely," Cecilia replies, smiling sweetly.

They sit down on the bench outside the church's large lawn. The wooden furniture is worn out heavily, due to its outdoor position and its age, but the shabby look only serves to improve its classic feel under the warm sunlight. A few of the younger sisters, seeing their approach, hastily run out and scrub the wooden surface in futility, before the head sister waves them off. To Gawain, the peaceful atmosphere soothes his nerve very well, having been tense for various reasons during their journey here.

Gulping down the chilled water, he begins to silently muse upon the result of their travels, as he watches the beautiful girl next to him cheerfully waving towards one of the children.

In simple terms, they failed.

They collected no clues whatsoever regarding the whereabouts of Guinevere. The shocking crime initially gave them a boost in spirit, due to the sheer audacity of the deed and the suddenness of it. Their pride as swordsman wouldn't take this figurative defeat just like that, so they began their search in earnest.

Soon, however, they realized one fatal flaw: none of them had any experience in search-and-rescue missions.

Gawain was used to leading soldiers in battle. Short skirmishes, guerilla tactics, sieges, he knew them all, but not this discrete operation where intense scrutiny was needed in every step they took. Mordred was even worse in this regard, judging from her personality. Of course, he didn't dare say it out loud for courtesy's sake, even if she wouldn't mind it. It's not official, but it's apparent who's going to sit on Camelot's throne in the next few years.

Cecilia... was complicated in every way. Yes, perhaps his feelings affected his evaluation of her, and he admitted that to himself. There's no need to lie to his heart about this stuff, for it'd only slow his steps down. She, as a person and a warrior, was outstandingly competent in every way. Just... It's just that tiny bit, just a little bit, where he couldn't get a grasp of her motivation. Was she doing this due to a sense of duty to her master? Was she doing this for herself? Or was it something else entirely?

Coming back to the root of the problem, he has no idea currently of why did His Majesty assigned this particular members in a group. Surely, his esteemed wisdom would've foreseen this, even without Merlin's assistance? Gawain suspects it's actually the whimsical and airheaded princess who asked for deployment because she's bored, but with no evidence, he kept his thoughts to himself. Even if it's true, more manpower on the field will increase the chance of success, no matter how marginal.

The sound of high-pitched laughter and giggles distracts him slightly, but since Mordred is still happily chasing around the kids and playing with them, he judges he still have time for some introspection.

After they realized their shortcomings, they indeed tried to overcome it by taking an unconventional route. If gathering in shady pubs and whispering in dark alleys weren't their strong point, then they should instead rely on the goodwill of the people. Thus, they began to build good, casual, almost personal relationships with reputable and respectable characters through the road, hoping that this form of positive attitude would bear them fruit.

So far, this goody-two-shoes approach hasn't been working terribly well. Sure, they helped with provisions, since the news of the Camelot Princess coming to some villagers' home to have a humble meal spread faster than wildfire in a dry forest. The citizens seemed happy that their ruler was growing closer to them, so much so he feared Mordred was getting carried away with the act and forgetting the main mission.

To be honest, he has even doubted himself over the same thing.

Seeing the happy, peaceful smiles of the people has this strange effect for him, and for his peers as well, he thinks. The way they live their lives so humbly, and yet so energetically and hopefully, has a strong pull towards those who has long forgotten the hardships and pleasures of... well, 'normal' lives. The sweat running through their arms as they work the fields, the thumping in their chest as they chase their livestocks, the merry clanking of cheap utensils on a large communal table with ravenous children...

Ah, just the thought of those can make him smile sincerely, now.

The blood and the curdled screams under his blade seems decades away, the sins he piled on the battlefield being cleansed by the pure stream of homely scenes.

Perhaps... perhaps if he chooses to live this way, with a woman he loves... Just the two of them, maybe with some children, secluded in some remote village untouched by war...

If he, a jaded war veteran, can feel this way, then the pure and innocent princess will be even more affected.

"Gawain."

"H-Ha! Yes?!" He scrambles onto attention at Cecilia's voice.

He has specifically requested for the three of them to forgo formal greetings during their trip, one suggestion Mordred wholeheartedly supports. It's a hassle to keep that much personal distance during this extended trip, and the thought of lengthy introductions every time they greet each other grates on her, so this rule was unanimously supported. Still, being called so casually by the woman beside him sends a strange shiver down his spine, one he has never experienced before.

She giggles at his awkward reply, and to him, it's the most beautiful smile he has ever seen. Sighing to himself at his unbecoming behavior, he asks politely, "Is there any difficulty you've spotted?"

"No, no, just an inquiry," she replies, her face still showing an amused expression. "I was just wondering why there's no response from the opponent's side even after all this time."

The kidnapping of the Queen is a serious security matter, and of course not one that can be discussed in the open outdoors right next to a normal sister. He shifts his line of sight towards Cecilia's side, grateful that the sister has already left. Also, there's something...

' _Ah... stupid me.'_

His personal musing has led him to lower his guard, so much so he completely missed out on Cecilia activating this strange, plate-like device on the wooden table. He can guess what its functions are, judging from the thin layer of magic energy he felt over his skin, enveloping the area around them like a thin bubble. Berating himself for such misdeed, he determines the area is safe for this conversation.

"Yes, I've also wondered that recently. No claims, no demands, nothing whatsoever... At least, as far as I can find out. The person who took Miss Vivian and Her Highness is certainly not an individual we've faced before, but I guess he or she has some sort of long-standing enmity towards His Majesty, to be able to concoct such long-term plan."

Cecilia raises her eyebrows.

"So you're in the group which believes Miss Vivian is innocent?"

"At least until proven otherwise, I'll keep my own opinion of her," he nods. "What about you?"

She snorts in an unladylike manner.

"I don't know her personally, so I can't say. If she's an enemy, then all I'll do is swing my sword according to Master's wishes."

"She's ridiculously strong, you know."

"Mm." Caressing the hilt of her sword, she says, "I've fought stronger, so I'll be fine."

Giving her a wry smile as a response, he shrugs cooly, trying to keep his emotions in check. Her response is certainly confident, bordering on arrogance, but knowing her skill, he has some faith in her ability. After her critical injuries earlier in the year, she has bounced back stronger, her spirit almost palpable to him. His senses regarding this area of a person are quite sensitive, the opposite regarding Magecraft.

Rather, what probably attracts him so much towards her is perhaps this sense of invincibility she's exuding. The women he has met (and bedded) all were peas in a pod, acting in a similar manner in accordance to what today's culture deems attractive. He doesn't blame them, because that's how their upbringing has taught them, but over time, he no longer sees them as individuals, merely dolls dressed up in a same way to please their elders.

Cecilia, however, is different.

Maybe it's Her Highness Mordred's influence, or this 'Grandmaster' she always talks about. Maybe it's her orphaned childhood, or her troubled start to her adventures. Maybe it's all of the above, or something different altogether, but in any case, it gives her a unique aura compared to any other girls. Some say the rarer a thing is, the more desirable it is, and perhaps he's caught in this mindset. There's certainly more beautiful, richer, sexier, or more intelligent women, but this particular combination in Cecilia appeals to him so much even he doesn't fully understands it.

As she continues to speak her mind, outlaying her analysis of the situation, her voice sounds more and more distant as he's sucked into her blue eyes, uncaring of the world.

* * *

Compared to the sunlight Mordred is bathing under, the weather at Camelot has taken a turn for the worse. Small droplets of rain has fallen sparsely, but the temperature is so unnaturally cold in the summer that the workers in the castle has chose to wear their winter clothes and lighting up the fireplaces. The masonry of the castle has been enchanted lightly to improve the living conditions, but due to its age, Merlin was unable to do a full-scale renovations, leading to the chilling wind making its way around the halls and rooms.

The sombre atmosphere suits Altria's mood as she slaves away at the paperwork in front of her.

There's reports of the Romans rebuilding their army after the lost of their elite commander Justin, along with his imperial guards. The Knights she stationed as lords and barons around the border in the north and the east has asked for an increase in provision and manpower to counter this imminent threat. Luckily, the last battle was so dominant that only a minimum amount of casualties has aroused, so at least the manpower part isn't a concern. She still has to rotate them to avoid leaving the agriculture unattended, but leaving that job to some of her ministers should do. Compared to their predecessors, they're honest and hardworking, so she trusts them implicitly regarding state affairs.

The Picts and the Saxons won't make a move until several years in the future, with their army so thoroughly decimated, and rebuilding their strength is their utmost priority. Merlin's students has resumed their earlier role as intelligence officers from their earlier posts as special units in the battlefield, but the reports has been scarce lately, after Vivian's disappearance. She needs to consult him regarding this problem, so she can build her defenses better next time.

"You're making a pathetic face, Altria."

' _Speak of the devil...'_

Merlin shows himself in the form of a small, cute mystical lamb. It's not his real body, but a mere familiar created for communications and support purposes. This form has such destructive adorable power that the females inside the castle will instantly swoon over it and press it onto their breast, much to his delight. Its eyes glow in his original purple color, unlike the normal brown he uses nowadays to conceal himself.

The lamb lightly hops onto her table, where it comfortably nestles down, acting as a fluffy paperweight.

"Be quiet, Merlin. I'm busy."

"Busy feeling sorry for yourself? What will the others think of you out there?"

Her eyes narrow in irritation.

"Then what do you suggest I do?" She asks, a thorn in her voice.

The lamb whistles somehow, given its different mouth and nasal structures to a human's. "Relax, have fun, you know? Copy your daughter a bit in this aspect."

"Oh?" Raising her eyebrow, she asks, "You're finally addressing her as my 'daughter'?"

Being a magus, it's hard for him to see a homunculus as a true person. All of them are a creation of blasphemy, an effort from humanity to recreate a miracle from the gods. He's not a religious person, but a person of his stature and strength can easily manufacture tens of homunculus daily. Therefore, he often addresses Mordred as if she's an object, even after receiving plenty of murderous glares from her and Cecilia.

"She'll cut my balls off if I keep on doing that, so no thanks."

Altria smiles wryly, thinking a form of gratitude to her daughter for keeping the magus in check. Personally, she knows what it's like to be viewed as an object, for a king must serve as a symbol of her nation. The feeling of shame and anger when viewed in such derogatory fashion makes her blood boil, even now.

Exhaling a breath, she leans back onto her rigid chair.

"I cannot."

"Why not?"

"Mordred is young, so I shall say she never felt this same feeling as I do now." Closing her eyes, she pictures an image of a lovely woman, one who's always been at her side. "I love her dearly, Merlin. If I relax now and rest, will I not be disrespecting her? Even if I am of the same sex, I will not let a single strand of her hair harmed."

"Then... what will you do to Lancelot? It's highly likely he's also involved, you know."

Shaking her head, she answers, "I had never wanted to separate them. Wanting them to be happy together... Is it a fault in the end, Merlin?"

Now, it's his turn to sigh.

"To tell you the truth, I half-expected this problem many years ago," he confesses. "Not regarding Guinevere and Lancelot, but regarding your own heart. Killing it off... is impossible. Some times in the future, like now, it'll burst out and cloud your judgement eventually."

"Then I was not fit to be king in the first place?"

"I'm not saying that!" He exclaimed, with an intensity that surprised Altria. "What I meant is... maybe, just maybe, the way I brought you up was wrong. Maybe a 'perfect king' is imperfect in itself, and a figure acting alongside his or her emotions was better in the long run."

"You cannot run a kingdom without making some sacrifices, Merlin."

"I know. Perhaps the sacrifice we all made was just a little too much."

"Maybe," she conceded.

The lamb hops in place, then lands onto Altria's lap.

"Maybe you'd like to see this."

Its woolly hair bristles with power, and white particles of light start to converge in front of Altria's face.

"Oh..."

Her breath is caught in her throat as she observes the scenes being displayed.

The people... are happy.

The images are moving, but lacking sound, it feels like an emotionless stretch of film. Yet, just by their gestures alone, it's enough to convey to her their feelings.

Sweating, tired bodies working under the gloomy sun, yet their eyes are glistening with satisfaction. Children running around waving sticks, laughing all the way. Weary travelers and merchants being jostled around in their rudimentary carriages, but their expressions are full of exciting anticipation.

And, finally, a blonde girl with a face exactly as her own, smiling without a care in the world.

"I believe this is the best solution for us," he whispered in a small voice.

"All this time, the burden of the kingdom is placed on your shoulders alone. Now, there exist people able to take a part of it off from you, so please, don't push yourself too hard, okay?"

Her tired back slackens, along with her stern face earlier.

Smiling tiredly, she replies, "Of course, my teacher."

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **E**

 **Exellis – The Blood of Ellis**

 **Rank: C-**

 **Type: Anti-Unit**

 **Range: 1**

 **Max. Targets: 5**

A Mystic Code crafted with love as a gift from Ellis for Imina. When they were young, Imina was caught up in a near-fatal incident when his body was turned into a human julienne. Using her Magecraft, Ellis splendidly wielded her blood to seam together Imina's body and healing it to its present state. This, however, was a mere prerequisite to wield this blade.

A relatively short curved sabre, it possesses a menacing crimson glow even when sheathed. The glow is created by the intense amount of magic energy running through it, sourced from Ellis blood. She painstakingly shed her blood little by little, day by day, crystallizing it into this current form, filling it with her immensely dense Od to imbue it with her and Imina's combined form of Magecraft.

Usable only by Imina, its main purpose is counterattacking. By absorbing any and all contact with the enemy, it gradually accumulates kinetic and magical energy emited by his opposition and compresses it for later use. Its maximum capacity is still unknown, although reaching it requires Imina to endure an unbelievable amount of punishment far beyond his physical capability.


	23. Crazy, Drunken Banquet

**Hey, guys! I'm back with a new chapter!**

 **Now, before the nonsense starts, I want to dedicate this chapter to Nicky Hayden, the recently-passed 2006 MotoGP Champion. I have to admit, I've never been much of a fan of his riding style, but as a human being, as he did to many people, he touched my heart. So, rest in peace, #69. Ride on, Kentucky Kid!**

 **Alright, now that's done, I want to address some of the comments in the reviews section of the lack of pacing in this arc. Honestly, even I myself find it too slow for my liking, but the current me has no way of doing this amount of exposition without slowing down the pace. Hopefully, you guys will stick around for the following action-packed chapters!**

 **Plus, this chapter is the debut of the Character Sheet I promised in the last chapter. Be warned, though: the background stories in that section won't be explained in detail in the main story, so don't skip it! Besides, I'm curious whether any of you can guess from which universe the new characters come from... (don't worry, they're not OCs). Have a go at the review section!**

 **Disclaimer: Nope, even after this amount of words, worthy to be published as a standalone novel, I still own nothing of Nasu's. Anyone has a share of TYPE-MOON for free?**

* * *

"Hey, Shirou?"

"Yeah?"

Filvis pokes her head from her bunk bed above me with a confused expression.

"I was just wondering... did you actually only have _that_ weapon when dealing with Galehaut?"

I shift my body on the hard, cheap beds, propping my lower back with a tough pillow. Considering the age and time, the feeling of luxury is comparable to that of an ultra-modern prison, instead of a stinky, damp dungeon cell, so I'm not complaining, having survived in the wild for so many years. Filvis, on the other hand, was constantly fidgeting left and right on the mattress above me, unused to such 'simple' accommodation. Maybe her question is just her way to waste some time, now that she can't sleep?

"No... But considering the time I had back then, I had no other options."

"Hmmm..." She hums, before asking again, "But Lady Cheryl thought you did, so why's that?"

I click my tongue. It turns out her previous unresponsive state in the fake courtroom was of no hindrance to her brain. I was hoping to avoid this conversation, because no man likes to have their mistakes dug and brought up over and over again, but I decide to indulge her this once.

"I was naive."

"You know, that short phrase really didn't answer anything," she remarks.

Shaking my head, I answer, "I was hoping I could save him, at least alter his fate... But he's too stubborn, and I was caught out. Certainly, I had plenty of countermeasures if he refused from the start, but... he played me." Scoffing at my blunder, I add, "He still hadn't let go of that sliver of hope even after I killed him, so my instincts wanted to go and save him. Alas, it didn't work, and here we are."

"'Alter his fate'... what are you, a god?" Filvis coldly replies. "A person's fate should be unknown to anyone and uninterrupted by anything. Your statement earlier sounded like mere arrogance to me, not a desire to save a person."

"Do you actually know his future?"

"No, I don't," she snaps back. "And I don't need to-"

"He's the catalyst of the destruction of the current British civilization."

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, the walls surrounding us aren't normal stone walls. Instead, it's made from an alchemically-enhanced hardened mud. Completely soundproof and nigh-indestructible, it absorbs vibration very well. Having been spared by the echoes, now my ears have to deal with her shrill shout.

Massaging my ear canals, I reply, "Yup."

"EXPLAIN A LITTLE MORE, YOU IDDIIIOOOOTTTTT!"

"Alright, alright, calm down," I coolly say, satisfied that my tease works. "Do you want me to use my 'bedtime stories' voice or a 'divine narrator' voice?"

I narrowly dodge a Reinforced pillow, strong enough to splinter boulders into pieces, by a hair's breadth.

Her frustrated face now hangs upside-down in an effort to smack me dead on in the face, but I quickly disarmed her of her supercharged pillow and pull her down. She yelps at the sudden fall, but I expertly catch her and sit her down beside me.

"W-Wha..."

"The technique is called 'aikido', if you're interested," I explain. "Anyway! The story's pretty simple, really..."

I find myself stifling my laughter at the way she perks up at my voice, like an attentive child being read stories by her parents.

"Ah, right. Galehaut's role is essentially a matchmaker between Lancelot and Guinevere. He pushed their relationship forward, convincing the couple their love was pure and just, and no status nor morals shall stand in their way. Of course, he also provided support for their many, many adulterous meetings. Isolated hamlet, horses, escape routes, fake official visits, you named it, he arranged it.

"Initially, didn't Her Majesty Queen Guinevere look more withdrawn from society? That's before Galehaut started serving under His Majesty, therefore it's the time I suspected they made contact."

Puzzled, Filvis asks, "You're right... but how can you know all this? I never sensed you near the castle, or any spying Magecraft..."

"I'm a Heroic Vessel, remember?"

"Er... and what does that mean, exactly?"

Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I sigh. "Let's just say I had my sources, alright? I'll focus on the story, since you're the one who asked first."

She nods, letting me to continue.

"Well, from the start, His Majesty already knew of their relationship, but s-," I interrupt myself, almost saying 'she', revealing Altria's true gender to the elf in front of me. I don't know whether it's an open secret between the inner circle of Camelot, but I can't be too careful. "... _he_ prioritized stability of the court, as well as Guinevere's and Lancelot's happiness. Realizing he couldn't give them any satisfying prizes for the sacrifices they made, he let them advance their romance, as long as it didn't interrupt matters of court."

Filvis is waiting with bated breath with an adorably determined expression.

"But, later on, an instigator would've started a rebellion, and the three of them: Galehaut, Guinevere, and Lancelot, were the three key pieces to the fall of Camelot and King Arthur's reign." I deliberately omit Mordred's identity, for fear Filvis will do something rash and stupid. "I have secured the instigator, but just as I thought everything's fine and dandy, Nimue kicked things around to satisfy her urges."

"Nimue? The Lady of the Lake?" Filvis asks with horrified eyes. "Wasn't she the one who granted His Majesty his current sword and scabbard?"

" _One_ of the Lady of the Lake," I correct her. "Her twin, Nyneve was the one who crafted Excalibur and Avalon."

"Ah, I see..." She nods sagely, pretending to understand everything from my simplified story. "So-"

\- Clink.

The complicated lock at the door tumbles open.

A childish head covered in blue hair pops in from outside.

"Shirou, Filvis, are you two awak- O-Oh!" Her cheeks redden, no doubt full of misunderstandings of our current position. Right now, Filvis is sitting far too close to me compared to her earlier position, almost leaning her face into me in a half-kiss. "I'm sorry to interrupt you two!"

' _If you're really sorry, remove that snicker from that face of yours...'_ I deadpan inside my head.

Filvis, being the easily riled woman she is, jumps so far back she falls off the other side of the bed, landing in a U-shape between the wall and the edge of the bed.

Both Ellis and I laugh heartily at her expense.

* * *

The banquet I'm in feels silly, considering what have been happening.

The sounds and smells are merry, with slender elves mingling about and chattering happily, mixed with several non-elves, such as humans, heteromorphs, beast-men, and others. Truly a sight for sore eyes; the impossibility of unison between the different races all proven wrong in front of my eyes. The sight I dream of and wish for every day, and I've finally found it.

The tables, to my surprise, aren't the usual western-style long, rectangular ones, but are Chinese-style round ones. The seating arrangement is clearly biased towards rank, so the table I'm sitting in is full of the creatures whom I planned to apologize to earlier; that is, the leaders of the various tribes and groups in the Reverse Side of the World.

It's a shame Filvis isn't here, instead being carried away to a separate room by Ellis as soon as our clothes were switched to something more presentable.

Beside me, as per the norm, is Cheryl, wolfing down the food and drink with childish abandon. I'm flanked on the other side by Imina, who curiously is allowed to stand in for his wife. He seems to share my thoughts, as he eats with a slow and confused pace. The food is great, by the way; I'm tempted to go to the kitchen and pick the chefs' brain for the minute details of their recipes.

' _Tracing really is convenient...'_ I murmur in my thoughts as the general ingredients are being disassembled and listed in front of my vision.

Ah, I'm digressing from the situation.

As I said earlier, the guests seated on my table are all very important, not only in status, but also in power as well. If they all decide to gang up on me, forget defending Filvis, I can only rely on Unlimited Blade Works or Slash Emperor. That's how strong their collective strength is, not to mention their own individual quirks. Thankfully, none of them seem intent on making a ruckus.

And... Imina silently excuses himself, deserting me alone.

Well, let me describe them one by one.

A pair of oni twins in their late teens, one red-headed, one blue-headed, is conversing peacefully while nibbling at their food. The single horn on their forehead catches my attention, simply because higher-ranked onis usually possess two or more horns. From the redhead, I sniff a whiff of artificial wind, like the sort modern air conditioners give off, while her sibling's abilities are more physical-oriented, judging by how different each of their Od flows.

A young girl, outwardly only slightly older in appearance than Cheryl, is dressed in an elegant, frilly red-black gothic lolita dress with matching hair ornaments while disinterestedly sipping at the served alcohol. Her incredibly pale skin and hair, even brighter than alabaster, only serves to highlight her astonishing beauty when contrasted with her dark clothing. A glimpse of her elongated canines clues me in on her species as a true vampire, a different breed than True Ancestors and Dead Apostles. Better not bring them up, or else she'd take it as an insult. They all do.

One of the more conservatively-dressed people sits right across from me. It's odd seeing someone wearing traditional Japanese clothing, and even more odd when it's a woman in her late thirties wearing a full black hakama instead of a more feminine choice. What strikes me as unusual is her being... _human_ , like Imina, but she has enough political clout and real battle strength to be seated in this table. I don't recognize her stance, since the two white diamonds on either side of her clothing's chest area and the simple khakkhara resting near her signifies her relationship to the Shinto branch. There's no trace of traditional deities on her magic energy, either, which means she's a complete stranger to me.

To the woman's left is a human-shaped wolf wearing similar clothing to her, though he wears a white haori over a black hakama. I find myself captivated by how his lupine hands and jaws skillfully and politely dismantles the food laid out in front of him, in a manner eerily similar to humans, even though it should be physically impossible and impractical. Strength-wise, he is below par for this group, but that's not taking anything away from him.

The last person is an androgynous... _person_ elegantly devouring _their_ food. Thanks to their blue-white hair and delicate face, not to mention an unnaturally smooth and shiny complexion, I can't tell their gender without resorting to my Pure Eyes. To my surprise, they're a slime, and of course, genderless. Yes, it's awkward talking with a gender-neutral pronoun, but I can't find anything more appropriate without asking directly, which would make me seem insensitive.

"Ne, ne, why so sullen?" Cheryl asks innocently, nudging my knee with her tiny toes. Though with her strength, the 'nudge' will feel like a blow from a sledgehammer if endured by a normal person.

Forcing a smile, I reply, "Just worried where you're taking Filvis and what evil plans you have, separating us like this."

The elven girl giggles, as did the twin oni sisters. The others simply shows mature, wise smiles, though the wolf-face's smile is more similar to a hungry beast's than a calm man.

The black-clothed woman, Sumiko, kindly offers Cheryl a way out, saying, "Now, now, let's start with the main topic of our meeting today, no? I have to return soon, so please, Cheryl-chan, don't waste my time."

The girl in question wilts slightly under that 'kind' stare, and nods respectfully.

I stand up, giving them all an apologetic bow.

"First of all, I am..."

I am cut off by the lycantrophic man raising one of his large palms.

"Ah, let us talk past that already, SHIROU. I do not wish to emit any disrespect, but as we know, and _you_ know, we are not here to talk about your punishment." He scans the table, looking for anyone else who wants to talk, and finds none. "Personally, I, Komamura, thought your decision was brave and correct. It might be rash and stupid, but I found no fault in that. Any objections?"

"No objections on the first part," the vampiric girl speaks nonchalantly. "This is getting boring, and your drinks are crap, Cheryl."

The elven girl puffs her cheeks, not looking anymore insulted than she was before.

"It's not my fault, Shalltear! I never drink alcohol, so I can't choose..."

"Pff... why didn't you let your underlings choose, like we all do, blockhead?"

Her sentence is mocking, but her tone sounds more like a big sister chiding her younger one.

"Now, now," the slime happily claps their hands, saying, "Like Komamura said, let's get going. I had plenty to say as well."

' _No choice, then...'_

I steel myself, before daring to ask, "Excuse me..."

"Hmm?" They turn around in a cute manner.

"May I have an introduction? I was wondering since earlier..."

"Oh! Of course!" The slime stands up and offers a hand. "I'm Rimuru, representative for the Monster Country, 'Tempest'. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

The last bit is spoken in Japanese, making Cheryl's eyebrow twitch.

"Rem, do you think these two are a bit weird?"

"Yes, nee-san. Very weird. A man enthusiastically shaking a homo's hand is..."

"You're right, Rem. How terrifying..."

Faster than I can react to, two fists made of blue, gellatinous liquid bop both oni twins on the head.

""Ow!""

"i'm not homo, you idiots. I'm bisexual, so that's different."

""Same thing!""

Sumiko bows in apology from across the table, saying, "Forgive us for these three, Heroic Vessel."

"It's alright," i reply, smiling. "I'm kind of used to it, so it takes off the pressure." Sitting back down, I continue, "Ah, if I may proceed, then what is the true agenda of this meeting?"

Taking a sip from her glass, and wincing once again, Shalltear coldly says, "Killing Nimue."

I am so shocked I can't bring up any respon- No, of course that's a lie. I _do_ have an inkling this would happen, and it actually does.

Faked out by my shocked expression, the vampire smirks.

"No one plays me and gets away with it."

Komamura coughs, his heavy voice silencing the entire room.

"As my colleague has said..."

"I'm not anybody's 'colleague', big mutt," Shalltear protests half-heartedly.

"Yes, of course." He slaps the insult away, continuing, "Now, as I just said, we are all here because of the Lady of the Lake's scheming behind the scenes. Using you, Heroic Vessel SHIROU, as bait... or more accurately, your weapon, she sought to turn us against you, taking advantage of our culture and perceptions." Neatly rearranging his cutlery as he talks, he says, "If she succeeded, it'd bring about a second... er, how do you put it? 'Titanomachy', or 'Gigantomachy'?"

"Just 'men against gods war' would've been fine," the vampire scoffs. "Why is everyone so focused on the Greek Mythology? Anything else would be good for a change! And the two examples you provided were gods against gods, not men against gods, you fool."

Once again, no one pays heed to her cold insults, with Komamura simpy continuing on, "Yes, yes. I meant that. In any case, it's not something we wish to happen, therefore, we shall assist you in... _eliminating_ this problem. Personally, Pæga was a friend of mine, and anyone who threatens his charge won't earn any favors with me."

"Pæga? Ah, Mordred's grandfather!" I recall.

Komamura raises his thick, bushy eyebrows. "You don't know him?"

"Not personally, no," I admit. "I never met him personally before he passed, only knowing him from Mordred's tales."

\- Clink.

Sumiko puts her cup down rather forcefully, although it doesn't mar her well-cultured image. She says, "Now, what I want to ask to you, SHIROU, is whether you have a means to do that or not? Without, of course, resorting to your Knight Arms."

To that question, I frankly reply, "Yes, but not without my Knight Arms. Combining it with my Reality Marble should erase any disadvantages with its usage, which, sadly, was an option I was too late to execute in my battle with Galehaut. My apologies."

"Heroic Vessel, please don't bow your head too much," Rem chides. "It reduces your bargaining power, and it looks unsightly, right, nee-san?"

"Like Rem said, we are all equals here," Ram adds. "Well, that's only because we know we'll lose in a one-on-one match against you, so raise your head."

"That said, nee-san, didn't it sound like he's playing us?"

"Come to think of it, you're right, Rem! Wow, I was fooled..."

I let the two sisters mumble among themselves to allow me to concentrate further on the meeting.

Rimuru cuts in for the beginning act.

"Right, I have calculated this plan. It's-"

* * *

"Miss Filvis? Are you ill?"

Ellis is asking her with such a caring tone that the black-haired half-elf feels slightly guilty. Even so, her stomach just can't digest this amount of food, no matter how little. Her hands are still trembling, and weakly lifts a mug to clear her thoughts.

Sitting here, amidst long, thin ears and silky, light-colored hair, the emotions she should feel is curing her homesickness. Yet, due to her circumstances, not even in her wildest dreams she can sit here peacefully, eating and drinking happily amongst those of her kind.

Those whom she has spilled blood at.

The calm female couple over there, with their backs to her, is interposed with the image of the two corpse from back then. The sound of sloshing liquid pouring from a large jug is heard as if it's a waterfall of blood falling on the floor. The bright eyes, innocent and trusting, morphs into a betrayed and disbelief expression as their life force drained before her very eyes. The soft tune played by the performers meshed together with a curdled scream, created from the blood filling the person's lungs.

' _...I'm dizzy.'_

A soft palm rubs her back gingerly, and the urge to vomit disappeared.

"Lady Ellis, thank you very much..."

"It's fine. After all, if you waste the food, the chef will get me at me, you know~?"

Her kind smile is supported by her husband's slight nod from further to the side.

"He's scary..."

The muttering makes its way to Filvis's ears, causing her to shudder in concert with the man.

"My apologies..." Filvis weakly mutters.

"No, no, it's fine."

"I don't think I can continue this banquet, Lady Ellis. May I excuse myself?"

"Then, I'll accompany you."

Without waiting for Filvis's reply, the petite blue-haired girl beside her rises and grabs her arm. With surprising strength, she easily lifts the taller girl to her feet and casually makes excuses to the surrounding stares. Filvis feels like a dog being walked around on a leash, but due to the sudden change in tempo, she can't let out a protest in return.

With the accompaniment of Imina's lazy wave, they exit the banquet area.

The route back to the simple lodging is unfamiliar to Filvis, having spent none of her life witnessing the change brought about by the change in the elven leadership. Confused and dazed, she dumbly follows Ellis to her resting pace easily, her longer stride able to match the elven noble's pace.

After a while, Filvis realizes something.

The place she's brought to is not a room. Bare of any essentials, such as beds or wardrobes, it barely even has paint coloring its walls. She's staring at an empty space, wide enough to be a gymnasium or some sort, but she already has an idea what this room is used for.

"Lady Ellis... this place is..."

Turning around, she frowns at the smiling blue-haired girl.

"Have you realized it yet?" Ellis cooly asks. "I put something in your food to bring you here."

"Why? To execute me?"

Ellis wryly shakes her head.

"You are so distrusting of others, after all this time, Filvis...? No, I had received instructions from above, but that instruction is not to snuff your life."

"Then what is it?!" Filvis urges, a torrent of Mana swirls around her body.

"First, test your worth," Ellis calmly answers, putting out one finger after another. "Second, awaken you from your... I quote, 'pathetic slumber'. Third, to occupy you here as your companion is being treated the same." Smiling sweetly, she curtsies. "That is all."

The wild mass of magic energy calms down somewhat, but still very dense and intense. Narrowing her eyes, Filvis threatens, "You should've brought along Sir Imina with you."

Of course, it's only bravado. She stands no chance against this noble elf with her full strength, equipped with her best weapons, so how can she win now? The drugs put in earlier doesn't seem to affect her too much, but what will it do in the middle of combat? Her rapier is somewhere else, hidden in the vast compound, while her enchanted clothing are neutralized and erased of their powers.

Still, remembering the back of the man who defended her in the courtroom when he has everything to lose, she will never give up.

Instantly, the entire room is flooded with blood.

Like ancient times, a moment later, the literal red sea parts as a column of light bisects it in the middle.

Panting, Filvis swings her conjoined palms as a counterattack, but the strain of her Magecraft without the aid of her equipment is very draining. Ellis, still casually standing in the middle of the room, simply tilts her body to one side, where the hurriedly-constructed light disc splashes uselessly midair as it loses power.

"Ah... it seems you still have a fight in you," Ellis nods appreciatively. "I half-expected you to keel over and perish like the coward you are now."

"Hah... who's t-the... coward...?" Filvis says, heaving. "I... still have something I must do."

Before, as the red wall approached her, indeed, her body froze. A part of her did exactly what Ellis said, accepting her death due to the weight of the sin she carried. A person like her... who even abandoned the only person she cared about and ran away without completing the deed of saving, didn't deserve to live. She accepted the fact she's a death row inmate, far before the elves caught her. She thought her life was a mere loan from Father Time, and the blood in her hands would drown her eventually.

Penance must be paid, sooner or later.

But... _but._

If the man who stood by her side, even when he's innocent, and risked his life to help her realize her desire... and the person who nurtured Cecilia in her place, didn't give up one bit, how could she back down now? She won't be able to show her face around him anymore.

Therefore... she'll fight.

It won't be a fight to the death. Lady Ellis isn't the type to cruelly torture someone before killing them... or at the very least, that's what she's surmised during her interactions with Lady Ellis. She can't read people as well as Shirou, so she's relying on her instincts. Hopefully, it'll last her through this battle.

Hopefully.

"Now," Ellis speaks from behind her, her figure already disappeared from her sight in a blur of speed, "show me what you can do, Miss Filvis."

Filvis twists her body as fast as she can, but intense heat lances through her stomach, before a hard kick smashed into her sides, shooting her into the far side of the room. Before she can even cough out the blood gurgling in her throat, Ellis's delicate, small hand wraps itself around her throat, choking the blood back down her stomach.

With a sickening sound, Ellis's other hand plunges into Filvis's heart.

* * *

"Haa..."

Like an old man, Mordred exhales her breath lazily while leaning on Clarent, sitting down.

' _I'm lonely...'_

How long has it been since she realized her own feelings?

In front of Cecilia, she put up a strong front when confronted with her emotions. No, it wasn't a 'front', since she herself believed she's fine back then being left behind by Shirou. After all, he has showered her with his love the previous night, to point of it overflowing from her body, so she considered herself satisfied.

Yet, her emotional desires eventually came to outgrow her physical ones.

Having realized she wasn't human since an early age, she tries to emulate their logic and emotions in order to blend in better with them. However, Shirou accepted her no matter how she acts, so her growth in this area was fairly stunted. Growing up, in order to avoid causing trouble for the man she loved, she pushes on in this area, helped by her mother's initial design for her to live among humans.

However, in the end, it's only a fake mask.

Perhaps this was the reason why she's so close to Shirou, but unlike him, there's a place in her heart which is completely unbreachable by logic and emotions.

It was a part of her she has fought in order to unlock her true strength. The single-minded assassin created in order to bring ruin to the Kingdom of Britannia by herself, by annihilating the soldiers against one another and killing the King. Accepting it was a part of her, against all her instincts, was proven to be the right decision, but it left a sizeable part of her heart being eternally frozen in fear of it.

What if she couldn't control it? What if she hurt those close to her, and those who she has grown to love? What if everything she has done was undone by a single release of it, turning her into a crazed berserker forever dishonored in history?

The answer to these questions eludes her even now. She knows she's not the brightest person among her colleagues, but this is her own feelings... so she should be alright.

Right?

' _I miss you.'_

In this moment, she craves Shirou's guidance. He's the only one she can rely on, the one who'll hug her warmly and console her with gentle words. He's the only one who'll chide her openly without hurting her feelings... Alright, the last one would probably hurt, but not as much as the others who didn't know who she was or how she'd react.

She thinks she's used to his absence. After all, even before meeting Cecilia and the others, she has been living separately from him, even in anger and pain. Perhaps those emotions has distracted her from how much she needed him, both physically and emotionally, but it's too late to regret it now.

Now, she has many comrades which she trusts to a certain degree. Cecilia is the best achievement she has made in her life: loyal, kind, and motivated. She's the sort of friend Mordred has dreamed of and heard from the normal life-inspiring stories and lores.

Her father... is complicated, but Altria is much better than she thought. Initially, she thought the King would be the cold, unflinching steel wall she has glimpsed from her other self's memories. Instead, meeting her, Mordred realized she's just a person shackled by fate, similar to herself, which leads Altria to create an imaginary moat around herself to be able to make proper impartial decision. In other words, not that different from herself.

The Knights of the Round Table are a rowdy and unpredictable bunch. Kay is the epitome of the uncle everyone hates, being there simply because he's too good to be replaced. Tristan and Gawain are model knights, so she gets along well with them, though their stuffy and too-formal demeanor sometimes annoys her. Lancelot is formidable, perhaps the strongest human opponent she's faced so far, but his blade is far too tainted with pain and guilt, clearly felt during their exchange. Lamorak is boisterous, but capable, but her interactions with him is limited to the banquets and parties she's forced to attend, both of them forming the 'loose and fun' group. The others are simply too far out for her to meet them, so she can't judge.

These relationships, the ones her mother only planned to use to backstab them, are one of the biggest blessings she has in life. For once, she is among her peers, both in thought and martial arts, living the life of the perfect knight her other self has always wished for.

Is she happy? Of course.

Yet, the happiness still lacks something, leaving her unsatisfied.

' _Shirou... where are you? Are you well? Don't get tangled up with other people's mess, please...'_

\- Static.

The mental letter she writes him is disrupted by a shock of pain from her right arm.

"Tch..."

Luckily, Cecilia is away, being pestered by the infatuated Gawain, or else she'll wreck havoc just to try and heal Mordred's pain.

Shirou and Nyneve has warned her not to use her powers rashly. This is something other than the usual 'you-possess-something-so-be-responsible' thing, but more of an actual physical danger. Even with her improved body, courtesy of the efforts of Shirou and Nyneve, wielding her dragon-infused body recklessly will only harm herself and those around her. It's said that Excalibur, belonging to her father, can't be unleashed to its full potential unless swung with both hands, so there's no wonder this new Clarent, more powerful than the original or Excalibur, causes this much pain from being swung with one hand.

It was, in hindsight, a stupid action. She could've taken the unconscious Cecilia and ran for her life to avoid that demonic spear's attack, letting her armor and Prana Burst take the brunt of the blow. But the thought of that spear pointing itself at her precious student snapped something within her... a primordial rage beyond any anger she has ever felt. Thus, she emulated Shirou's quick draw, a technique from the East (as he claimed), and foolishly let loose.

With one hand.

Merlin said she was lucky not to have the entire right side of her body crippled. The surge of magic energy required to activate Clarent was too much for her right arm to handle alone, and it took him two whole days of constant operation to make it work again. Having no design of her body in his repertoire, he had to improvise some solutions, but his moniker as one of the greatest magus ever was justified. Normal actions and regular combat is now possible, but she fears she has lost the ability to utilize Clarent ever again.

Shirou could probably fix her, as does one half of the Lady of the Lake, but she lacks the means to contact them right now. So, in the end, she can only do the one thing she hares the most.

Endure.

At the very least, the happy smiles and laughter of the children and young adults she has visited eases her suffering somewhat. Her other self looked upon them in contempt, thinking that the happiness of the people is merely a temporary illusion, as fragile as morning mist, waiting to be blown away by reality. But her recent experiences has allowed to tell her other self to stuff it where it belongs.

Having known this sense of satisfaction, seeing them live better and happier than before, makes her wonder: Is this how Shirou felt? Does he draw the same amount of joy and fulfillment from the act of saving people? Even tiny things, like generosity, forgiveness, or a simple warm greeting can make them happy.

Secretly, a small amount of pleasure envelops her as she feels closer to Shirou in spirit.

Clutching her throbbing arm tightly, she focuses her mind to other things she likes. The views she has seen during her travels, the thrill of combat, her father's scent, Shirou's unrelenting love-making, and so on. Slowly, the pain subsides, though she knows it's only momentary.

She stays there until her stomach gives up and demands attention, then she hurriedly returns to the old church for an early dinner.

* * *

"All hail the Emperor!"

The shout is followed by a chorus of excited voices shouting in unison of the exact same sentence. The well-trained lines of soldiers and generals on their horses lift their head proudly and exclaim with great volume their praises to the person walking into the head of the forum. Among the sea of red and bronze, not a single step is out of order, a symbol of the high level of discipline of the Roman Empire.

A medium-built man around his fifties walks majestically into their view. The tension rises, as not a single voice can be heard before the Emperor speaks first.

"My subjects."

His tone is unassuming, somewhat ordinary, befitting his posture and looks. However, the pressure he emits, even from a distance, is certainly befitting an emperor, demanding the respect and attention of his listeners.

"WE GO TO WAAAARRRRRRRRR!"

"YES, YOUR MAJESTY!"

The roar of the Emperor, followed by his audience, shakes the entire place to its foundations.

"That small, puny island to our north, the so-called Kingdom of Britannia, has the audacity to refuse tribute payments to us for the last decade! My beloved Guard Commander, Justin, was killed by them unjustly a few weeks ago! My people, judge by yourself, who is guilty of these misdemeanor?!"

The response he received is overwhelming.

"I hereby announce... and salute my army!"

A heavy rhythm of drums plays on cue, and the side of the plaza opens to reveal a small number of neatly-arranged cavalry. Judging from their uniform and the gears on their horses, at the very least, they're all centurions.

"""We pledge our life to the glory of the Empire!"""

In perfect harmony, all of them descended gracefully from their horses and kneels down on the ground, under the raised platform where the Emperor stands.

"I, Anastasius the First, hereby command you to conquer that tiny rock! Kill everyone that resists, and bring me the head of Arthur Pendragon!"

"""YES, YOUR MAJESTY!"""

The amphitheatre roars with life as the war music begins, and the centurions begin to file through to begin their long journey north.

"My legionnaires!"

A wave of his arms summons three men, all clad in advanced equipments. Their gilded helmets and breastplates shine in the sun, twinkling like descendants of the solar god. Even if their age is older than the young and fit centurions, their eyes contain the wisdom collected through their battles and hardships, emitting a heavy pressure to their surroundings.

"Lead my army to victory!"

"""By your command!"""

The three of them rush off after they salute their emperor.

Right after that, a middle-aged man shuffles closer to the Emperor.

The action raises Anastasius's eyebrows.

"Longinus? Do you have something to advise me with?"

His tone is far more respectful than the exclamations he did before. Being a rival in the past emperor selection, he recognizes the ability of this man beside him to equal his own. It's a shame his relatives possess such dark history in the rule of the Eastern Roman Empire, or he felt he might've lost the previous election.

"I was wondering whether I can join the campaign as well, Your Majesty."

"Eh?" Anastasius lets out a dumb sound. "Shouldn't you be more considerate of your health? Even I find it difficult to wear armor and march these days."

"My teacher has an interest in this war, and likes to take me with her."

"Your teacher? Ah, that beautiful goddess?" The Emperor's face turns into a delightful smile, remembering his encounter with that person. "If so, then please take care, and convey my greetings towards her."

Longinus bows, far more casually then others, getting away with it due to their relationship.

"I am grateful, Your Majesty."

He then rushes off towards one of the buildings used by the nobility to hold their parties and meetings, empty in this time of the year. The heat is considerably intense today, but his well-built physique lets him to maintain his brisk pace, despite his advanced age. Rather than a politician, which is his official rank, his gait resembles more of a seasoned warrior.

An oppressive silence greets him as he passes the main gates.

The atmosphere isn't due to an altercation or a cold discussion, usual between the nobles who live here. No, the reason his lungs instinctively constricts, making him short of breath, as if a python has coiled around his chest, is due to the aura emitted by the enchantingly beautiful woman lying on the bench, relaxing her bewitchingly sexy body under the sun.

' _Inhuman,'_ he thinks.

Indeed, this is how his master greets him every time they meet.

He suspects she doesn't even realizes the weight she causes to her surroundings, with her immortal body exuding a choking air every time she moves. From the stories he heard, it was due to her ascendance to godhood. However, instead of moving towards that divine place, she still has an attachment to this world, so her constitution keeps wreaking havoc around her.

That said, he has no enmity towards his teacher. She was, after all, the one who has 'birthed' him, giving him the life among humans he so craved. All those years trapped inside an immobile form drove him crazy, so much so sometimes he regretted having formed a consciousness in itself. However, the instant his teacher picked him up, she granted his wish without a second thought, as natural as she breathed, without asking anything in return.

As a man, and as a weapon, he has resolved to dedicate himself to her.

There were times when he felt inadequate. With his master being immortal, there's not much he could do for her given her astoundingly divine skills and strength. No matter how hard he tried, he could never gain her approval as a person, not once being deployed in combat against her challengers. No matter how many centuries has passed, he couldn't push himself to the level she required or desired, leaving the last and only blood he has ever tasted belonging to a man on a crucifix.

But now... now his time has come.

His teacher has called for him for the first time ever.

"Why are you just standing there, Longinus? Come, sit by my side."

The sweet, husky tone waves itself towards his ears, making his legs move without him realizing it.

"I am not worthy, Master!"

Forcing his knees to bend, he grovels on the ground, forehead kissing the marble floor.

A sterner voice comes as a reply.

"I don't have much time, Longinus. Come, and I'll explain my need of you."

"Yes, Master."

Shuffling about on the floor, he makes his way to his master's front, though still kneeling on the floor.

Scáthach sighs at the act of servitude. _'Do they really have nothing better to do?'_ Centuries have passed, and humanity never changes: they bow down to their superiors, or they overthrow them. Can they never aspire higher? Can they never dream better? Can they never wish to stand side-by-side with those better than them, chasing to reach that higher plateau?

' _How boring...'_

No, there's one that's interesting. Her mind flashes back towards her last fight, where the floating blonde ponytail manages to ensnare her attention. The silver-crimson sword which destroyed half her body, even if it's reversible, reminded her of a sense of loss long forgotten. The fearless eyes stirred the depth of her soul, arousing a desire she has abandoned many years ago.

To obtain her, Scáthach will need to go against a Heroic Vessel.

Licking her lips at the potential of a showdown, she lowers her gaze towards the _thing_ kneeling before her.

"Let me ask you one thing, Longinus," she begins, "do you have any lingering attachment towards this ruined kingdom?"

"Master? I don't quite understand, pardon me."

"You have been living here for many years, and I'm not that foolish to ignore whatever feelings you have budden towards anyone in this place. Speak up, I won't punish you if you have any aversion towards helping me."

\- BANG!

The marble floor cracks as his forehead slams onto it.

"I have devoted my life to Master! I have no regrets, no matter how you use me!"

Receiving his sincerity, Scáthach smiles.

"Good, good. So, even if later you'll drink your own countrymen's blood, don't go on a frenzy, alright?"

He shakes his head, the rubble around his head crunching under the motion.

"The term 'countrymen' doesn't apply to me. I am forever a member of the Land of Shadows. Any country in this weak world has no ties towards me, Master."

He scuttles forward as Scáthach extends her legs, and begin kissing the tip of her open toes.

"Your loyalty will surely be rewarded, even if that kiss isn't necessary, you know."

Standing up, she reaches her hand out towards thin air, as if grasping something.

The thing kneeling on her feet glows, before particles of light begin to levitate in the air and coalescing on her hand.

The room is bathed with a strong, white light, revealing a simple, white spear.

"Now, Mordred... this Longinus Lance will cut off your fate, so become mine obediently, alright?"

Her dark chuckles echoes across the building, all the way across the Reverse Side of the World.

* * *

 **Character Sheet Update!**

 **E**

 **Ellis Khan Iivi-Endveil**

Title: Bloodrain Princess

Predicted Class: Caster

Gender: Female

Height: 150 cm

Weight: ?

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Strength: E

Agility: E

Endurance: C

Mana: A+

Luck: B

 **Class/Personal Skills:**

 **Territory Creation: C (A)**

By scattering minute, near-invisible droplets of her own blood throughout her surroundings and mixing them with the surrounding moisture and/or liquid, she can control organic material around her as both offense and defense. The strength and size of the affected area depends on the amount of blood used and organic material around her, so this ability is reduced in strength inside urban areas or as static defenses. She prefers to infuse these flecks of blood inside the respiratory system of her opponents, allowing her to control their lives with a snap of her fingers.

 **Blood-Soaked Recklessness: A**

The occasion of absorbing blood brings a sense of euphoria to Ellis, increasing her bloodthirst and reducing her mental capabilities. This skill grants an increase in Agility and Endurance. As her built aren't suited for fighting at the front, this skill is also a double-edged sword that tempts her to perform reckless attacks while vacating her original supporting position. However, showing such appearance in front of her husband rouses shame in her, so she suppresses this skill as much as possible, although some of it still leaks out unintentionally.

 **Blood-Sucking: A**

Normally the skill of a vampire, Ellis's unique Magecraft allows her to manipulate her opponents' blood that come into contact with her own, as well as absorb magical energy from them. This skill is remarkably efficient with little to no drawbacks. The higher a person's Conceptual Weight, the more delicious their blood will be for her, and the more magical energy she can extract from them. Despite their intimacy, she hates the taste of Imina's blood, as it harbors bad memories for her.

 **Magecraft: A**

In a sense, she is a genius among geniuses, parallel to the current elven leader, Cheryl. If the younger, white-haired girl possesses an unnatural talent towards close-quarters combat, Ellis has an equally large inclination towards Magecraft. She can learn and master advanced spells in a very short amount of time, but because she prefers her own unique brand of Magecraft, Crimson-Stained Water Lily, these spells end up unused. As a child, her capacity has already surpassed her elder brother and her father, which allowed her to defeat them easily during the elven invasion.

 **Crimson-Stained Water Lily**

Ellis's original brand of Magecraft, taking the form of haemokinesis and haemogenesis. Its practical use is limited only to her imagination, from direct physical attacks or manipulating her blood into complex magic formulas to execute higher-order spells. She nourishes herself back by absorbing her enemies' magic energy, preferably through blood. She is less adept in converting Mana from her surroundings than normal elves.

 **Character Description**

An adorable young girl with sky-blue hair and an unusually large bust for a woman her size, Ellis is a demure, polite girl on the outside who always has a warm smile for everyone. On the inside, she is an overly passionate woman towards the things she likes, and very protective to those she considers precious. Her attire as the current elven leader's attendant is relatively simple and down-to-earth, mostly combinations of a dress and a coat of various colors. She likes to visit the Outside of the World under disguise, which was the cause of her and Imina's first meeting.

A broad-minded and kind-hearted person, she views all races equally without discrimination, a far cry from her father's views, especially towards humans. She tends to see the best in people, no matter who it is, but merciless against those who are proved wrong. She's a good wife, skilled in both housework and culinary arts.

Initially, her relationship with Imina was supported by her brother, but he succumbed to their father's pressure and ended up as vanguard in the elven invasion, his first victim being Imina, his best friend. Blinded by rage and grief, Ellis butchered the entire elven advance party with her Magecraft, including her brother and father. Her crimes were pardoned when Cheryl took over the elven leadership shortly after the invasion commenced, and she was branded as a war hero who maintained peace between the Reverse Side of the World and the Outside of the World by killing the aggressors. She has little guilt over her sins, and now prefers to work behind desks to push forward her ideas. Her middle name, 'Khan', notes her noble lineage as the daughter of a former, albeit temporary, leader.

The current and former elven council are secretly terrified of her, more so than they fear Cheryl. Even Imina shares some of this feeling, but he's too scared to say it to her face.

 **I**

 **Imina Haimatie**

Title: -

Predicted Class: Saber

Gender: Male

Height: 165 cm

Weight: 61 kg

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Strength: C

Agility: C

Endurance: B

Mana: D

Luck: D

 **Class/Personal Skills:**

 **Magic Resistance: C**

Cancel spells with a chant below two verses. Due to Ellis's blood flowing inside his body, her magical power is converted into this instead. Imina is unable to use any Magecraft whatsoever aside from self-enhancements and self-hypnotism.

 **Battle Continuation: B**

Imina can continue fighting even after sustaining mortal wounds. This is brought by a combination of his own undying will and Ellis's blood flowing within him, making his body far more durable than normal humans.

 **Eye of the Mind (True): C**

A heightened capacity for observation, refined through training, discipline, and experience. As long as there's a 5% chance of comeback, this skill greatly improves Imina's chances of winning. This ability is distilled from his knack of defense with his sword, waiting and calmly observing his opponent's habits to launch one deadly counterattack.

 **Character Description**

A nondescript young boy with ordinary brown hair and equally ordinary brown eyes. In fact, his appearance is so mediocre it's a mystery on what parts of his appearance his wife likes about him. Reasonably well-built after a tough teenage years, his body is littered with horrific scars, especially around the joints of his limbs and chest. These were a result of an elf invasion during his youth, which ended up in him being cut apart by Ellis's brother into many parts when he resisted their attack. Saved by Ellis, he now dedicates his life to this childhood friend of his.

His swordsmanship can be characterized as 'stalwart', dictated by the peculiarities of Exellis, his favored sword. He uses his experience to reduce as much damage done to him by parrying or blocking attacks, not counterattacking until absolutely necessary. He prefers to lure his enemies into a false sense of superiority by constantly defending, before unleashing Exellis's full power and ending the match in one blow. He has trouble against opponents who can finish him in one blow despite his defenses, or a pragmatic opponent who dictates their own pace regardless of their emotion.

He's not the jealous type, but anything he considers a threat to Ellis will be responded with heightened, inappropriate aggression. However, sometimes he's bothered by Ellis's overwhelming affection for him getting in the middle of his duties. Somehow, he's a fan of Japanese culture, even though he never went there.

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **E**

 **Exellis – The Blood of Ellis**

Rank: C-

Type: Anti-Unit

Range: 1

Max. Targets: 5

A Mystic Code crafted with love as a gift from Ellis for Imina. When they were young, Imina was caught up in a near-fatal incident when his body was turned into a human julienne. Using her Magecraft, Ellis splendidly wielded her blood to seam together Imina's body and healing it to its present state. This, however, was a mere prerequisite to wield this blade.

A relatively short curved sabre, it possesses a menacing crimson glow even when sheathed. The glow is created by the intense amount of magic energy running through it, sourced from Ellis blood. She painstakingly shed her blood little by little, day by day, crystallizing it into this current form, filling it with her immensely dense Od to imbue it with her and Imina's combined form of Magecraft.

Usable only by Imina, its main purpose is counterattacking. By absorbing any and all contact with the enemy, it gradually accumulates kinetic and magical energy emited by his opposition and compresses it for later use. Its maximum capacity is still unknown, although reaching it requires Imina to endure an unbelievable amount of punishment far beyond his physical capability.


	24. Blood Sport

**Hey, folks, long time no see!**

 **As what you might surmise from the reduced traffic overall from the authors in FFn, most of us are in the middle of a holiday. Sorry that this chapter is later than usual due to the holiday bug. As for me, I'm mostly on a culinary trip to explore my birth city for its hidden gems, and full with sinfully good meals and drinks, have neglected to post this already-completed chapter a day sooner. Again, I apologize.**

 **In any case, happy summer holidays and Eid al-Fitr for those of you celebrating it. I certainly enjoy the summer discounts everywhere! Plus, congratulations to Reginleif2004 and mastergamer98007 for (mostly) guessing the correct fandoms for the new character. For 98kazer, the 'why' will be revealed... later on, as always. Please be patient.**

 **For those of you wondering, here's the remaining answers:**

 **Cheryl: Bu ni Mi**

 **Sumiko: Kekkaishi**

 **Now, enjoy the story!**

* * *

Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I sigh.

"Who's the one to suggest this idea again?"

The answer comes from one of the oni twins... is it the red-haired one? Or the blue-haired one? I'm not sure.

"Indeed, it's a frankly stupid and barbaric idea. Of course, being part of the younger generation, I disliked it as well, even though agreeing with you feels off."

"Nee-san, there's no need to reveal your thoughts to this brutish man. I also disliked this idea, although agreeing with him feels off."

"Why are you doing what you just said I shouldn't, Rem?"

"You must be mistaken! I'd never do that!"

Ignoring the twins' antics, I turn my attention to the sanest member (to my standards, anyway) of the committee available, Komamura.

"Did you hear my question?"

"I do, but I don't see why I can answer it," he gruffly says. "It's a long-standing tradition, and like the two foolish children over there said, it should've been abolished long ago. It's not a question of 'who started it', but 'how you finish', so get one with it, young man."

"...you do know I'm older than you, right?"

Chuckling through his canines, he eyes me cynically. "Age is a question of spirit, not body."

"Fine."

Across where I'm standing, a nervous Cheryl is being coached... well, _whispered_ 'encouragements' by Sumiko, which seems to done wonders to the girl's composure. Unlike the first time we met, when she had a graceful, innocent, but dangerous presence, the one shivering on the corner over there is a mere frightened child. I can eavesdrop on what Sumiko is saying or read her lips, but I choose not to. For the good of my sanity.

That said, this duel is... plain stupid.

Why do people always do this? 'Right, two sides with opposing opinions? Let them duke it out in the ring!' Well, the person who created this culture in the first place can gorge on my excrement.

" _Before we lend you our assistance, I think it'd be prudent to know your capabilities."_

" _Right! Fists and swords are more honest than tongues, so let's get going!"_

" _I'm bored. Hurry and finish her, SHIROU."_

" _Wait, wait! Why am I the opponent?!"_

Sumiko, Rimuru, you two are _so_ going to be paid back in full.

' _Sorry, Cheryl.'_

Going all out against a child-like opponent is not an issue with me. There's many threats whom I've neutralized that took on the form of weak, fragile beings, whether it's underage children, alluring women, or sickly old man, but they all had something in common: strength. I've learned, the hard way, not to underestimate anyone and treat every fight seriously.

But it's hard to do so when the enemy is clearly unwilling.

Despite our butting heads in the fake trial inside the fake courtroom, I sensed a fair sense of respect from the little elf, and I returned it accordingly. Her appearance may be young, but she's not a leader for nothing. Just by watching the elves who serve her, I can see the quality of her leadership, which is excellent. The previous head must've been unpopular, for in the short timespan of Filvis's escape and Cecilia's birth to today, every elf I see holds no dissatisfaction in the way Cheryl rules.

However, no matter how much they like her, isn't cheering that enthusiastically a bit rude?!

I don't need a second, but Komamura seems insistent to stand in the corner to assist me. Turning him away for the umpteenth time would be rude and tiring, so I decide to use him as a chatting partner to lessen my mental burden. Cheryl is having a much harder time, her eyes flitting here and there to avoid looking at Sumiko who similarly refused to leave her side.

Really, the incident that made Cheryl this frightened of the ex-Japanese woman would be a good story to tell.

Before I know it, both of us has stepped into the makeshift ring made of rearranged dinner tables.

Neither of us needs a starting signal. As soon as a slight hesitation appears on my posture, Cheryl charges forward immediately, faster than Mordred ever was.

Of course, the opening is a mere feint. Both of us understand that, and plan our next ten moves accordingly.

"Alright! Let's hear some cheers!" Rimuru exclaims happily, cheering energetically from the sidelines.

\- Oooooooo...

"You traitors! You want to die?!" Cheryl shouts mid-strike.

[Physical Limit: Release]

Red tattoos begin to spread all over my body, in a familiar pattern from a distant probable future. The blood-red swords interlocks with each other, crisscrossing my body like a sickening curse.

"Ooohhh! Here it is!" Sumiko excitedly claps her hands.

' _Right, one limiter is enough... Probably.'_

The reason why I released all of my limiters in my fight against Galehaut wasn't because he was a more dangerous opponent than this young girl in front of me. In a straight fight, Cheryl would've won hands down. That's how potent her strength is. Slash Emperor wasn't something instantly available to me like my other swords, due to its activation conditions, therefore Alaya decided to lock it up to prevent any accidents.

That said, giving me the key to that particular lock might not be the best idea...

In a one-on-one duel, this limiter release is ideal. My individual combat strength doesn't differ much across all three limiters, so it's not like I'm holding back. Rather, if I even have an inkling of such thoughts in this fight, I'll die in a heartbeat.

A fist flies at me, breaking the sound barrier in the process.

' _Oh, dear...'_

I dodge it, giving up on trying to counter, my Eyes at full power. As I predicted, the fist retracts back so quickly it can fire another shot almost at the same time as the first one. It's a speed and power that mocks the fighting prowess of counter users like me, goading me to try and read her impossibly random motions.

' _It's her left?'_

Cheryl is standing in an orthodox outboxer stance. Her left fist is lowered down to her waist area, bent and relaxed, while her right is guarding her head. That monumental punch is no different than just a jab, although its strength is more analogically comparable to a cannonball.

Her body sways, then disappears from view.

Luckily, my Eyes isn't constricted to a normal human's viewing area.

Her lefts fly like machine gun bullets. Yet, despite their simple-looking trajectory, at the very last moment, they curve themselves slightly to target an opponent's weak points accurately. Their launching motion reminds me of a striking snake, releasing their coiled power elastically and powerfully to bite at me.

She's not using kicks, but her footwork checks mine in order to limit where I can dodge and parry. Having a smaller body, infighting probably suits her better, but her stance is as fluid and fast as anyone I've ever faced. Perhaps her speed is similar to those of Lancer-class Servants, and her hands as strong as their spears.

Her brute strength, on the other hand, reminds me of the Berserker-class Servants. Each punch tears through the air so fast the air around me has started to combust, leaving me with even less room to maneuver.

I slash with my empty hand, formed tight like the tip of a blade.

There's many martial arts which incorporate weapons training into their regime, especially swords and spears due to their commonality. Mostly, they use their weapons as an extension to their hand-to-hand techniques, or as a complement to it.

My hand-to-hand combat, however, is different.

Her left curves around an area in front of my hand, knocking her body backwards and away from my earlier attack.

"So, that's your 'sword', then?"

"You're quite perceptive."

Cladding my entire body in Sword Burst is the most effective unarmed combat method I can think of. Through my body, the experience of the weapon masters inside Unlimited Blade Works is Traced and applied. Sword, spear, dagger, shield, bow and arrow, halberd, anything.

I tear down their techniques and movements to their basics, allowing them to be executed with my limbs as substitute for the weapons.

Naturally, the extension of Sword Burst should've been invisible, like the ones I used to clad Kanshou and Bakuya against Galehaut. However, this girl manages to see it.

No, she doesn't 'see', but 'sense' it.

Her combat perception is frightening. It was an attack aimed precisely between the gaps of her flurry of jabs, after positioning myself to receive only glancing blows. I was prepared to trade blows back then, but she realized the danger and backed off, all within a split second.

And she hasn't even taken out her right fist.

' _Oh, here it comes.'_

Cheryl's right straight explodes.

* * *

' _Amazing...'_

Imina stands gobsmacked at the side, watching the two entities battle it out for... well, to put it mildly, a minor bet. He's sure that Shirou can manage to overcome his problems in the Present World without the elves' help, even with the old-fashioned elders chasing after Filvis's blood. He has only met him for several days, yet the back of the taller male seems very reliable to him, compared to himself.

Ellis has always admonished his lack of self-confidence outside of battle, and maybe she's right. Looking at the two combatants, facing each other at speeds his old self would view as invisible, all the while making plans and adjustments on the fly. He questions himself whether there's anyone out there who can match these two, and whether there's anyone here who'd feel differently from him, witnessing this skillful battle.

Cheryl, for all her egoistic and impulsive nature, is a far better leader than her predecessors. Granted, it's only due to her influence that he can marry Ellis, or else she'd be excommunicated during the old reign. Her decisions are sound and sensible, although half of them succeeds as much because of luck as mature foresight.

As a fighter, he can hold no candle against her, or Shirou, for that matter. Even after all these years and training, his eyes still strain to follow their movements and decisions, struggling to unravel the intricacies of the match. Ellis will slap him upside the head for viewing himself this low, but after seeing this, he's sure she'll understand.

From a fighting style perspective, the two aren't exactly opposites, but not similar as well. Cheryl's barehanded fighting style is a direct contrast to the other elves', her martial arts being handed down only through her bloodline. Her pure white hair is a result of her demonic blood awakening, inherited from her mother, granting her immense magical power. Even at her age, she skillfully manipulates the flow of her Od in conjunction with her complicated barrage of fists, leaving behind only afterimages of hand and magic energy.

Shirou, on the other hand, moves considerably slower than Cheryl, to the point of lethargy. But every time he moves, Cheryl is forced to retract back and reset her chain of attacks, creating a stalemate. Logically, the difference in apparent speed should result in his loss, but after a few exchanges, a realization dawns upon Imina.

Shirou's slow movements aren't slow at all.

There's some elves who can alter a target's speed perception and comprehension through the use of various Magecraft and tools. However, this man... only uses the motions of his body to do it. A small slide here, a minor feint there, and it results in a movement that seems slow, but unbelievably compact and rapid in reality. The small adjustments he makes with his offense and defense always puts him in a position capable of counterattack, and these chances are what Cheryl is so wary of.

He praises his own tribe leader for being able to keep up with such a complex tactic. Every strike she makes looks fatal, yet perfectly guided to strike Shirou's openings... _and only his openings_. It's as if he has already read where she'll attack, and deliberately goads her to strike there to set up his counter. If it was Imina, he'll be defeated in five exchanges, tops.

He shudders at the thought.

Now, suddenly, Shirou ups his pace, and Cheryl is already cornered.

Long trenches on the ground lays scattered all over the place, as if a giant blade has carved into them. It makes the footing precarious, and even if Cheryl is able to compensate for that with her talent, those gashes are more like dormant minefields: deliberately put there by Shirou in order to restrict her mobility. He still fights in that slow-ish looking style: hands relaxed, palm extended to form a blade-hand, combining large and small rotations. Cheryl, on the other hand, is all about straight line efficiency, crossing two points with the shortest time and greatest power.

Slowly, but surely, her escape route is cut off.

A blast from her right straight is absorbed cleanly with a spin of his left arm, the analogical cannonball sliding out of position due to his rotating motion. The circles formed by his hands and feet are getting smaller and smaller, faster and faster, sucking Cheryl right into his pace. She tries to cut off his footwork with a monstrous chop of a low kick, aimed straight at the toes, but Shirou simply slides forward and connects their thighs together, cancelling the kick and putting him into striking distance.

It should be said that even with her smaller body, her actual physical attack range is slightly longer than Shirou's due to a quirk in her family's martial arts. Like the anatomy of a snake, her arms can extend and contract as flexibly, fooling her opponents with an everchanging sense of distance. If she uses her Magecraft, it'll be even longer, but her processing ability is clearly inferior to her opponent, giving her no room to enhance herself.

It ends faster than he can blink. Fortunately, he doesn't, and so he can witness what actually happened.

Cheryl fights back from her retreating position, trying to secure herself a foothold to even the field, but failing. So, in a flash of brilliance, she decides to use Shirou's tactics against him. Charging forward, she lowers herself almost parallel to the ground. The move opens her back to an attack, but that's exactly the point: her back is the only place he can attack. If he kicks her, she can grapple his legs and topple him due to her lowered position, and if he strikes down from above, she'll rotate her body and launch a counter uppercut.

Indeed, the first part of the strategy works.

Shirou backsteps slightly to allow him more room because he can't afford to move his legs offensively, but her charge brings him to her precise attack range. Launching upwards, using the momentum of her fall and the horizontal leap, she aims straight at his gut with enough power to shatter castle walls.

Then, her fist stops.

The inertia created causes her internal injury, blood spurting from her mouth and nose. With a flick of a finger on her forehead, Shirou knocks her down.

Only Imina and the others watching from behind Cheryl realizes Shirou's strategy faster than the others.

27 Black Keys are arranged perfectly in a concentric circle, all piercing Cheryl's shadow like a pincushion. Some say it may be overkill, but that's the amount of restrain required to contain Cheryl's conceptual weight, and even then, only for an instant.

The full-speed charge is brought to a halt so suddenly, and the inertia created is like an interstellar rocket ship crashing into an immovable wall. It's a credit to Cheryl's toughness that she survives the ordeal, even though she faints due to the sudden shock in the end.

Not knowing what to do, Imina can only cheer and clap at her defeat, ignoring the potential punishment later.

* * *

"No... no... no... please stop..."

No matter how much Filvis pleads, the torture doesn't stop.

It isn't the physical pain that's unbearable to her. As a veteran of many battles, she is accustomed to pain, and confident in her ability to resist it.

Mental pain, though, is a different matter.

As the thin blade goes into the soft body again and again, making a disgusting squishy sound as it pierces muscle and organs, and sometimes a crunch as a bone is chipped and snapped, the pool of blood stains the girl's blonde hair red. The cruel smile of the lanky male elf imprints itself in her mind, mocking her powerlessness.

"Cecilia..."

" **It was you."**

"No, please... please understand..."

" **You killed me."**

"No! I-I... It wasn't me...!"

" **You should've let me to die."**

"I want to save you! Please... please understand...!"

Her tears flow nonstop, and her words choke out with a lot of difficulty. Her ragged state deforms her usual beautiful and gallant figure, leaving a sorry excuse of a woman behind. Her hair is wet with sweat and disarrayed like a wraith, while mucus runs down her lower face onto the floor.

"Please... don't hurt her again... j-just... kill me instead... Please..."

She has finally given up.

Constantly, endlessly, the only peron left she cared about is brutally murdered, over and over again, while she lays helpless to prevent it. Her limbs feel heavier than lead, and her throat parched with her own screams, but nothing stops the disgusting gore displayed in front of her. Her eyelids refuse her demand to close, forcing her to witness the scene of her own nightmares.

"How weak."

"Can you look at her?"

"Where's all the bravado when she killed us?"

"Pathetic."

"Useless sister. If I were her, I'd spare the sister this misery."

The mockery stabs Filvis as sharp as Shirou's swords. Then, with a sneer, one of the phantoms lifts his sword and beheads Cecilia's head.

"NOOOOOO!"

Filvis's scream falls on deaf ears.

Outside of her field of vision, a blade descends towards the half-elf's heart.

\- Schlick.

A wet sound spreads across the area, accompanied with red blood.

"Wha-!"

The blade never reaches her heart.

A hand stops it clean in midair, uncaring of the large wound it creates as the it grips the sword.

Two burning eyes shine through a black foilage.

"I... have enough of this," Filvis mutters calmly.

Standing up, the image around her shakes heavily, like a stage set hit by an earthquake.

Easily snapping the blade in half, she mutter darkly to herself, "I have enough... of being weak. Being helpless like this... Damn, I know it feels like shit. Not good. Not good. Fuck it... why didn't I see this before..."

The shaking intensifies. From behind the walls of fog, thick streams of light starts to break through, forming cracks along the imaginary surface.

"Playing with my mind like this... I'm not that frail, immature bitch from before. Get your stupid head together, Filvis..." She continues her incoherent mumblings, all the while pouring massive amounts of magic energy outward from every pore of her being.

She shuts her eyes tightly, unknown whether due to pain or frustrations.

Clenching her fist tight, hard enough to draw blood, she cries out, "I don't care if you hurt me! However... involving Ceclia... is _beyond the limit_!"

With a loud explosion, the illusion around her shatters.

"I'll save her... even if you get in my way, I'll definitely protect her! No matter what prevents me, I'll definitely do it!"

An echo of Shirou's voice rings in her head as she keeps shouting out her declarations.

' _Yeah, I'm selfish that way... Of wanting to save everyone. I got that_ _ **a lot**_ _.'_

"Then... I'll be the most selfish woman in the world, Lady Ellis."

A weightless sensation strikes her, and with a jolt, she feels her consciousness reborn.

A soft sensation makes her realize the place she's lying on is Ellis's warm lap. Using Filvis's forehead as support, she's reading a small booklet innocently.

As Filvis struggles to get up with her groggy head, Ellis says quietly, "That is faster than I expected, Miss Filvis."

"Keep talking," the half-elf growls in return, "I'll kill you soon enough..."

"Ah... I might just let you do that as a test."

"Another fu- _test_?!" She shoots upward, her eyes glaring daggers at the blue-haired petite girl. "You dare...!"

Her words are cut short as her mouth goes numb, before her body lifelessly plops back onto the bed. Only her eyes remain sharp, willing the girl in front of her to experience the most painful torture imaginable.

Stroking Filvis's cheek softly, Ellis's face is warm and kind, much to the black-haired girl's confusion.

"I'm sorry for putting you through that, I really am," she begins. "It's because of the ordeals you will face next will kill you if I don't."

She shuffles closer to her captive.

"Can you feel it?"

She lazily waves her index finger around in the air, forming loose circles one after another, before settling it on Filvis's forehead. Suddenly, her body feels hotter and hotter, like molten lave being poured onto her veins. What surprised her the most is her pain tolerance; she expects to experience an untold amount of agony in silence, but the information flowing into her brain is a mere 'oh, just some heat' and similar others.

Her jaw slackens, signifying Ellis's control over her body has been lifted.

A thin glow is floating over her entire body, levitating her a few inches over the sheets.

"This... What is this...?"

"A part of you."

Clenching her fist over and over again, rechecking her physical and magical condition, she murmurs sadly, "So... because of that past trauma, huh..."

"Exactly," Ellis nods. "I've heard of you from the elders, about how promising you were. But when I met you, to be honest, it was disappointing. By then I realized something must've happened, and I did some investigation."

She lowers her head in front of Filvis, bowing deeply.

"My method earlier was painful. I won't make any excuse. If you want to hurt me, then I won't resist."

Filvis just sits there, not knowing what to say.

"Why... are you doing all this?" She asks gingerly, "All of this... I don't understand. Why?"

Recounting her memories, she continues, "I, a criminal, who should've been executed according to the laws, was saved by you. I, an exile, was healed and looked after by you. I, a stranger, was empowered by you just now. Why, Lady Ellis? All this kindness... I don't deserve it..."

Cupping Filvis's cheeks, Ellis sweetly smiles in return.

"It's not a matter of 'deserving', but a matter of 'need', Miss Filvis. At times like this, a crossroads of destiny, we must only look to the future impact of our actions, not past sins. Yes, what you did was wrong, and the dead couldn't be brought back to life. But, now, here, all we need from you is to atone for the rest of your life."

"Atone? How can I do that? I can't even properly take care of myself, or those dear to me..."

"Now, now, where's all the bravado inside that illusory world?" Ellis teases, saying, "That emotion, that drive, you should always keep the fire lit, to push you forward. Protect the justice and the morals you uphold, the pride you possess, in order to achieve your dreams. Live you life to the fullest, while protecting those you want to protect. Atone that way, and I'll regret nothing."

Blushing at her words, Filvis nods weakly.

"I understand." Saying that, she immediately corrects herself, "A-Ah, not that I really understand! I mean... I understand what you mean, but not the application..."

"Don't you already have a good role model?"

"Shirou, you mean? He doesn't even have a human soul anymore, Lady Ellis!"

"Do you know what a Heroic Vessel means?"

Filvis purses her lips, replying, "No, I never asked."

"Well, maybe you should. I'm not saying you have to do things as crazy as he does, or wanting something impossible like he does, but try and learn from him, not scorn his kindness like you always did."

"T-That's not kindness! He's just teasing me!"

"Well, aren't you optimistic," Ellis laughs. "Believe me, and in him as well, okay?"

It feels weird, being patted by a smaller and younger-looking girl than herself, but the weight of Ellis's palm on her head feels reassuring.

"Now, let's get on to business shall we?"

"Eh? What 'business'?"

"Didn't I say it before? I hurt you, so feel free to repay me in kind."

"How can I...! Lady Ellis, that's outrageous! I-! can't..."

"Please punish me as you see fit."

"I'm not going to! You've done nothing but good to me!"

"Please. Punish. Me. Okay?"

' _What's wrong with her?!"_ Filvis screams in her mind in confusion.

Slowly, awkwardly, she raises her hands.

"W-Well, I'll start, yes?"

Closing her eyes, Ellis nods resolutely.

\- Strrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttcccchhhhhh...

"Phoowaahhh! Fwhat awe whu dfuuuiiiiiiiinnnngggg...!"

"Please stay still, Lady Ellis."

"Iwch gghhhuuurrrttzzzz..."

"Weren't you the one who asked for it? This is my choice, so please bear with it."

After a few more minutes of playing with the soft, muffin-like white cheeks until they turn red and well-done, Filvis releases her grip and her tense mind.

"Aaawwuuuuuuu..."

Ellis rubs her stinging cheeks while sulking at the corner of the bed.

"I fweel hike Aif sheen a pallt ofv fhu no wahn hash sheen befwole."

"Aren't you the weird one?!"

Yet, Filvis's tsukkomi only falls on deaf ears.

* * *

Nimue smiles happily as she strokes a large, transparent cylindrical vat, even humming a random tune. Of course, the smiling face belongs to Vivian, but she's not the type to demean a person just because he or she is human, so she properly takes care of Vivian's body. In a sense, just the possession alone makes her original host to triple or quadruple in strength, though still quite far from her true power.

Her audience isn't impressed, scowling in deadpan behind her.

"I let you in my own Workshop, a personal haven for magi like me, my Queen. Please at least respect my generosity and humor me."

"'Magi like me'? That's not even your own body, monster," Guinevere spits out.

Nimue sighs. Really, appearance is just that: appearance. It's only skin deep, and isn't what matters the thing on the inside? _'Sheesh, humans are so fickle...'_

What she's doing is respecting what Vivian would do, by imitating her speech, conduct, and reactions as closely to the original as possible. Those who know of her possession technique always fear the demise of the person's soul, which is surprisingly correct, so she does this to pay a homage to their memories, in order to prevent them from disappearing. Isn't a person's life actually comes from other people's perceptions? By doing this, Nimue is keeping Vivian alive in a way.

Having explained her thoughts to Guinevere, she says, "Therefore, you should be grateful of me. At the very least, I am not tainting the soul of Vivian residing inside you, or others."

"I don't care!" Guinevere sharply retorts. "You've killed her, and nothing you can do will ever replace her, faker!"

"Tsk, tsk, how crude has your language become, my Queen," Nimue sighs in return. "Your husband would be ashamed if she saw you like this."

The mention of Altria finally snaps Guinevere's patience.

"Don't you bring her into this conversation," she growls dangerously. "Or I'll seriously consider suicide again."

There are several reasons why Nimue keeps this ever-complaining woman alive, instead of skinning her right off the bat and displaying it on Camelot's walls. First, the sentimentality brought by her new flesh wants her new male servant, at the very least, a smidge of happiness he deserved. Second, her value as a living hostage far outweighs the advantage an angry Altria will bring Nimue in her plans. Third, even if Guinevere dies, it will be at a time more opportune than now.

Although her nagging has _really_ started to grate Nimue...

Ignoring the Queen's threat, Nimue goes on to inspect her new creations. Really, who would've known that a normal human magus actually has something new to teach the Lady of the Lake, allowing her to see and tackle some problems from a new angle.

Just on time, the door softly opens after a few polite knocks.

A fair youth steps in with a tray of drinks and snacks.

No matter how many times Nimue sees him, his holy perfection still grabs her proud heart every single time. Compared to her, Guinevere's face looks sour, but she still courtesies out of habit as gratitude for the refreshments. The youth shivers lightly in nervousness, afraid of doing something wrong or unacceptable, but Nimue waves him out of the room.

"Perfect, isn't he?" Nimue asks, half with pride, half with ill intent.

Guinevere ignores the question, merely sitting down on an available chair and nibbling on the snacks, face facing away from her direction.

The ex-magus laughs inwardly at the woman's tumult.

That boy is the man destined to wield the true Holy Grail, born as a bastard child by Lancelot and Elaine. Birthing him is a considerable pain in the ass, since his strength is so great his mother is left paralysed by the act, still recuperating even now. Nimue immediately did some 'enhancements' on him as soon as he was born, with accelerating his growth the number one priority.

He's born just under two years ago, but looks in his mid-teens now. Nimue would've liked him to be older, but any more enhancements and his blessings will be ruined, so she refrained from it. It's a bit of touch-and-go; his purity is important in order for him to use the Holy Grail's power, one which neither his father nor the King is able to. So, any order she gives him must register in his mind as 'good', or else the guilt from doing a 'bad' thing will corrupt him and render him powerless.

Having raised him since birth, it's good that he's at least obedient. But, with his rapidly developing intellect, she must be careful in regards of deploying him to the battlefield. Fortunately, in this era, taking someone's life is not considered an automatic bad deed, and as long as he follows the chivalric code, sending him out to kill shouldn't be a problem. What matters is the information fed to him, and for that she's still keeping him under wraps for now.

As appearance goes, he's the epitome of what a 'holy knight' would look like. His violet-white hair is unusual, as does his comparatively darker skin, but his cherubic features, lean build... His handsomeness is on par with the paintings of angels hung in churches and collectors' homes. Skill-wise, he's still a shade under his father, but that's mostly due to his own inexperience rather than a lack of talent or effort.

Now that the title of 'Kingslayer' has disappeared from the stage, with Mordred clearly breaking her own fated destiny, Galahad is the only one who possesses the power and fate to slay Altria. The Holy Grail has deemed the King to be 'impure', having consummated with a person of the same sex and siring a child through a sex change. Therefore, by logic, Galahad should be able to eliminate the corrupted king and ascend the throne, being the pure man acknowledged by the Holy Grail.

She pours a small amount of magic energy to a particular vat, activating a scanning spell to analyze her progress.

In it floats a well-built man, killed in the previous battle between the Britons and the Romans' advance army.

Recognizing the corpse as an elite commander of the Excubitor, Justin, she initially planned on using him to leverage the Roman emperor, but decided against it after reconsidering her available pawns. Keeping him here, resuscitating him, nursing him back to health, and then using him in the most unexpected time will bring about the best chaos available. The prospect of it causes saliva to built up in her mouth, leaving her mood giddy to advance.

' _Now, let us see your next move, sister...'_

* * *

"Father, you'll be cold out here," Galahad softly chides, covering Lancelot with a thick blanket.

He only receives a rough grunt of acknowledgement in return, but even that is enough to make him happy.

Despite his young age, his mind is already capable of understanding the things revolving around him, courtesy of Nimue's modification to him. Some can say he's a half-homunculus, but he's merely an enhanced human being, reared from birth to serve as a pawn for chaos.

Of course, he rebelled with his full might the moment he discovered his purpose. However, the presence of his father and his lover complicates matter, and thus he has to shelve his desires for later in the future.

Since he was small, he has received visions from a... 'thing' called the Holy Grail. It manifested itself in his mind as a strange, soothing entity, existing only as a ball of light, not the chalice the Scriptures claimed it was. Even when he was just a powerless, innocent baby, not knowing a single thing about the world, he could sense its power and its true purpose, without really knowing how or why.

After a year of adjustment, he can now divine its intentions more clearly, albeit it's still speaking in obscure images and sounds, like stints of memories flashing through too fast to notice. The main thing he noticed was just how _wrong_ the entire situation was, how the recent occurences has deviated from its preordained fate. He himself had no idea, at the time, of how the future would form or how it should be, but his instinct screams at the corruption that has happened.

Now, his father stands here, a shadow of the former knight he was, his mind nothing more than tatters. Queen Guinevere is polite and kind, but clearly loathes himself who is her lover's bastard child. Miss Vivian, his surrogate 'mother', dotes on him, but behind her kind eyes, he can see the darkness within her which will happily sacrifice him for her goal.

A normal 2 years old child wouldn't have comprehended all this, but with his accelerated mental age to accompany his physical growth, his heart can only weep and bleed every single day and night.

If... if Miss Vivian desires him to swing his sword, then he'll be forced to do so without hesitation. He knows that he will be used to commit atrocious deeds, taking lives which doesn't deserve to, but his sense of responsibility to the woman who has raised him, no matter how insincerely, binds him like thick, heavy chain. In a sense, his 'love' towards a mother only has one receptacle, and no matter how much his mind tries to rationalize it and reject it, his orphaned heart will refuse.

But... for the sake of his father, he won't cry.

He won't let Miss Vivian to have the satisfaction of knowing she has the ability to wound his heart. He won't let his father to see the child from his sins become a useless man, unable to avenge what was done to him. He won't let Queen Guinevere to see him as a lowly puppet, serving only to lay waste to a person's fate.

At the very least, his heart has resolved to do just so.

* * *

 **Character Sheet Update!**

 **C**

 **Cheryl Khan Prime**

Title: Elven Princess

Predicted Class: Berserker

Gender: Female

Height: 140 cm

Weight: 45 kg (the weight of her fist is another matter)

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Strength: A

Agility: A

Endurance: C+

Mana: B

Luck: C+

 **Class/Personal Skills:**

 **Mad Enhancement: D**

Increases Cheryl's Strength and Endurance. However, because of Cheryl's intense training, it's possible for her to retain complex thoughts in the middle of battle. Genial conversation in this mode is impossible, though.

 **Aptitude for Slaughter (Humans): D (B)**

Cheryl is raised and trained to kill humans her grandfather seemed to hate. This skill is stunted due to her affection to her late husband, who possessed a human soul reincarnated into an elf's body and taught her human values. However, she can activate this ability to the fullest any time she wishes.

 **Charisma: B-**

Despite her relatively young age, she holds enough within her to lead a diverse group of elves, from various tribes and with differing values. Her rank in this skill can be higher given enough time for her to grow and accumulate experience. It mostly stems from her unyielding and forceful nature, though.

 **Eternal Arms Mastership: B**

By competely merging her mind, body, and technique, Cheryl is able to make use of her full fighting skills even when under the influence of her Mad Enhancement. However, it's possible to dull her movements with a strong enough mental interference from a higher rank.

 **Eye of the Mind (False): A**

An ability to avoid danger with a seemingly superhuman reflex and prediction. It is born of Cheryl's natural talent, not something she gained through experience or effort. This skill offers resistance to visual obstructions, although due to her young age, a skilled enough opponent can take advantage of this skill and reverse the momentum.

 **Demon's Kin: C**

Born of a demon father and elf mother, Cheryl possesses a measure of demon's blood flowing within her. Apart from her snow-white hair and red eyes, unique among elves, it doesn't change her appearance whatsoever, although it seems to stunt her physical growth slightly. This skill increases her magical capacity to some extent.

 **Chatacter Description**

A lovely young elven girl with long, snow-white hair and ruby-red eyes. Her petite body looks young, but her age far surpasses her appearance, although in elven society she can still be considered very young. Her behavior, at first glance, is suitably childish and flighty, but her innocent face hides a sharp and intelligent mind.

She was engaged to a brown-haired elven boy, who was actually a reincarnated human in an elf's body. Her grandfather was surprisingly estatic at the union, given his strict and overbearing nature, but her time with these two men was sadly short. After their deaths, she was taken under Sumiko Sumimura's tutelage to prepare her as an elven leader, changing the elves' point of view regarding humans and the Outside of the World. Her middle name, 'Khan', denotes her as the current elven leader and a member of nobility.

She has few friends, if any, and only Ellis can be remotely considered as such, or an elder sister figure. Due to her intense and (maybe) far too harsh training by Sumiko, she develops an intense dislike of Japanese culture, much to Imina's dismay, although nothing more comes out of it than some childish tantrums.

Like her grandfather, she likes combat, and judges people based on what she sees in them during battle. She's a firm believer of 'talking with one's fists', but her judgement of people is frighteningly accurate. She relies on physical combat rather than long-range Magecraft or Magic, and thus all her skills are honed towards hand-to-hand killing methods, of which she is peerless through elven history, surpassing her grandfather and husband.


	25. Deployment

**Hey, guys! What's up? Hopefully you're all enjoying your summer vacation right now! As you might've guessed, the rather late update is because I was doing just that: vacation. I wish this chapter can complete your summer to an ever higher level of perfection... or maybe just lift it above absolute crap. Depends on you.**

 **Actually, summer vacation, to me, means... zero motorsport. Being an avid fan, the near-stasis that their schedule just threw at me robs me of my weekend entertainment and scandals. Boo! As if the heavens were playing a joke on me and the rest of the motorsport community, right after the summer break ends for MotoGP, and we're hyped to get racing again... Angel Nieto passed away. 13 (or 12+1, as he insisted) times champion, and the godfather of modern Spanish bike racing... You will be missed.**

 **In any case, let's change the topic. I want your opinion. Should I watch and follow the Fate/Apocrypha movies? The first one was a disappointment to me, so my motivation of watching that series tailed off. What about you guys? I promise, I haven't watched any of the newly-released movies in that series, and I may never will again, depending on your feedback. How is it? Is it any good? If it is, then I'll watch it. And why the hell Ufotable isn't producing that series?!**

 **As always, enjoy the story, and keep the reviews coming! Don't forget to follow and favorite me! Cheers!**

 **Disclaimer: If it was me, there'll be more action and fanservice in Fate/Apocrypha, Nasu... Get your act together!**

* * *

The crackling of fire suits the atmosphere of the camp.

They're just normal men, huddled together for warmth and security. Compared to their youth, this life is considerably tougher than rearing animals and tending to crops, but the rewards far outweigh their hardships. One, the sheer pride of serving as soldiers under the famed Knights of the Round Table allows them to get 'special' privileges in various villages they rest sometimes. Two, their family's livelihood back in their hometowns is guaranteed.

And third, they can gaze at the Princess's beautiful features for as long as they like.

She's an oddity, that one. Being royalty, they had expected her to act in the same detached way the King does to his subjects. Of course, the reveal of her bloodline is still not official, but everyone can see their similarities. Unless she's the King's long-lost twin sister, which is unlikely, then the heir of the throne must be her. The person herself gets annoyed if anyone brings it up, and broke the nose of the person asking too intensely last time, so no one dares to discuss it out loud, even between themselves.

Even now, she's mingling about in the camp and talking and laughing and arguing normally with their peers, as if they belong to the same strata as her. They now know it's just a part of her own personality, and from her speech and conduct, they suspect she's brought up away from the royal court, for wildly different reasons according to their speculations. Gambling about it seems rude, so they avoid it.

There's not a single one of the men here who aren't mesmerized by her.

The King's features are soft and woman-like, as a result of Avalon maintaining his youthful figures. The golden, silky hair, the brilliant emerald eyes, the feminine face that enchants any onlookers, all of it is wrapped by the chains of being a king. Some of them who has actually seen his face commented on the distance they felt as they gaze at him, knowing their hands could never reach out and be accepted.

Princess Mordred is the complete opposite. She shares the exact same beautiful appearance, but her easy-going mannerisms, her frequent smiles and giggles, and her relaxed body stance draws the men closer and closer to her. She eats the same food as them, drinks the same beverage as them, and sleep on the same ground as them. Her down-to-earth nature makes her popular among the army, even if she only joins a few short months ago.

As a result of this popularity, however, they all agree on a strict look-but-don't-touch stance. Apart from Her Highness claiming she has a lover, anyone who receives her... 'blessings' will be instantly isolated during mealtimes and patrols. Also, the watchful eyes of her squire, a beautiful girl in her own right, feels like centipedes running across their backs, ready to kill them if they so much breathe slightly closer than comfortable to Mordred.

Whether she is aware of her own predicament, they're not sure. All they know is to hold the status quo, to enjoy being with her as long as they can.

Incidentally, if viewed from an outsider's perspective, their desire to protect her is not the same as the 'loyalty' they harbor towards their commander, in this case Gawain and Bagdemagus, who've just returned recently from the north. It isn't something earned through mutual respect and honor in the battlefield, as is the case with other armies as well. Mordred, to them, is an untouchable figurine perched on a pedestal, not too dissimilar to the way they view her father, despite their insistence of their difference.

No, what they harbor is more akin to 'worship'.

Certainly, those who has accidentally witnessed her battle with Lancelot and the unknown combatant who've injured Cecilia can attest to her inhuman prowess. No human can move and handle a sword that big, or carry a speed and change in momentum so drastic, no matter how enhanced with Magecraft. At least, not ones they know of. There are rumors of her having a stronger lineage of dragons' blood compared to His Majesty, further increasing the legitimacy of her chances for the throne.

It's both fortunate and unfortunate for all of them. First, it's a chance to impress in front of their future liege. Any one who can catch her eyes, or at least their commanders and are recommended to her, will have their place in future society guaranteed. The second part, though, is slightly more disconcerting, for reasons of the survival of the royal Pendragon line.

Really, what kind of father sends his daughter out to the battlefield?!

She said it was her choice, about how sitting around in Camelot like a proper princess disgusts her, but no one actually believes it. To their mind, a woman of her bearing should be cocooned in layers of security and swords, so that no harm can befall even a strand of her hair. No matter how strong she is compared to them, their instincts as a man leads them to think in this way.

Their rational minds as men, though, know that their combat potential has just increased significantly with her presence. Therefore, no one can utter the suggestion of sending her home and command from the back.

Because no one feels like they want to get their noses broken again, so no.

The girl in question is enjoying a more bountiful past time than her soldiers.

One fortunate aspect of being royalty, Mordred thinks, is the constant supply of edible foods. Now, they may or may not appeal to her, but having her belly full is important due to her energy consumption. Some women may envy her for her constantly slim physique, uncaring of calorie intake, but she sometimes finds the need to constantly partake in feasts to be cumbersome. At the very least, to her friends, if not her own palate.

Bagdemagus in front of her is being his usual reserved self, though the claim is slightly suspect due to their seldom meetings. He's the main leader of the previous skirmish up north, and have been since a few years ago when he was appointed to minister the lands there. However, the colder climate seems to have done no wonders to his skinny and pale build, making him look more like an impoverished scholar rather than a fearsome Knight of the Round Table.

"Hmm..." he mumbles, eyes fixated on her own self.

She shivers at the stare, fearing that her features will yet again claim a victim, but his next words shreds her misconception away.

"So... the stronger flavoring is to her taste, but not the others... hmm..." he continues to mumble in a small voice, as if jotting down a note inside his head.

After a while, she can't take the stare any longer, even though her conversation with Cecilia and some other soldiers has indeed turned out to be more pleasant than she thought.

"Oi, Bagdemagus, you should eat more rather than talk," she says crudely. "Honestly, I'm scared that you'd drop down and get confined to a bed in the infirmary soon."

He smiles and nods as a reply. "Thank you for your concern, Your Highness," he answers, not caring about her scowl at the way he addresses her. "But these weak bones still have life in them, so please rest assured."

She sighs, leading the others to pay attention to their banter.

"I'm not that worried, but your mutterings have begun to creep me out slightly. What is it? If you have something to say, I'd rather take it head-on than deal with it behind my back."

"I am merely noting the difference in taste between Your Highness and the other nobles, who supposedly frequently indulges in better luxury," he says calmly. "It turns out their 'food' is worse in standard than your own, and I am fascinated in the chef that has fed you for so long for you to have such stringent needs, Your Highness."

"Grandmaster is the best!" Cecilia exclaims excitedly, giving a thumbs-up. "His food is like an addicting drug, but a good one!"

Everyone laughs merrily at the claim, even the thin knight. Mordred vehemently agrees with her student, and begins to describe the wondrous meals Shirou has made for her. If anything, it'll raise his stock among the soldiers before he met them, though his disappearance has begun to wear thin on her anxiety. When can she taste his creations again? A year? Ten? Never?

She shudders at her pessimistic thought. If it happens, then she'd rather commit suicide rather than live in a bleak world without his cooking.

"That said, however, I fear this peace is no more than the temporary lull before a storm."

"Hm?" Mordred perks up. "What makes you say that?"

Bagdemagus lifts a finger in a pose, explaining, "The Romans are a prideful bunch, Your Highness. They sent in such few numbers as an attachment because they believe in their own quality, and that unit was completely destroyed without a single survivor. It's a certainty that Emperor Anastasius will come back, at least for honor, if not vengeance."

"And all the while we're dealing with internal security, huh..." Mordred ponders deeply.

"Exactly. This will be the perfect time to strike, as our forces are spread thin."

Cecilia raises her hand, asking, "Then... should we procure something powerful to use as a weapon? I have a feeling we're always being outnumbered lately, and resorting too much on clever tactics. Something like... the Holy Grail, maybe?"

The thin knight smiles knowingly.

"Its reputation is certainly grand, but the requirements to even lay eyes on it is far too strict for it to be feasible, Miss Cecilia," he says. "We know its location, but actually using it... Well, we will all die the moment we touch it."

"How so?" Cecilia quizzically asks.

The conversation has dragged on longer than it should, and begins to attract attention from the common soldiers. The topic is also about something they've only heard in legends, so hearing it direct from a Knight of the Round Table's mouth is a rare occasion indeed. Some of them has even begun to squabble over who'll take the next patrol, insisting every one of them needs to listen to this story. A rare glare from Bagdemagus's sharp, intellectual eyes brings them back to their faculty.

Continuing where he left off, he answers, "What the Holy Grail demands is a 'pure' wielder, and it is an attribute far more difficult than it sounds. Being 'pure' necessitates someone to never experience earthly desires, never partake in earthly pleasures, and never fall into earthly evils. To be frank, someone who matches that requirement is probably not human, and even the highest ranking nuns and priests we have dare not come near it."

"Someone who's 'sinless', basically?" Mordred rhetorically asks the air.

Bagdemagus opens his mouth to speak again, before realizing something and corrects himself on his previous answer.

"Of course, I mean no disrespect, Your Highness. But... you are a human already, even if you are not, correct? Forgive my rudeness."

He deeply bows in apology, remembering Mordred's unnatural origins.

She waves her palm about.

"No, it's fine. I'm used to it."

"That is not a wise answer, Your Highness," he insists. "As a future ruler, everyone should receive who you really are without any prejudice, and letting people off for these comments will only amplify the problem."

"What are you suggesting, Bagdemagus?" Mordred asks, irritated. "I should punish and hurt anyone who says something wrong in front of me? You know I'm not someone like that, so stop this grovelling. I hate it."

Those are mere words, but the air around him suddenly feels on fire, as if he's standing inside an active volcano's crater.

"O-Of course, Your Highness. Please forgive me."

"If you understand, then raise your head. All this 'future ruler' and 'would-be king' really grates me, you know? I'm not suited for that kind of task, so I'll leave it to the diligent Father."

She snaps her finger, before quickly saying, "Ah, don't tell him that, okay?"

Everyone laughs at the request, even the introspecting Bagdemagus.

However, that moment of happiness will soon be followed by a torrent of despair.

* * *

A few short weeks after, the Isle of Britain is on fire.

True to Bagdemagus's prediction, the Roman army comes in droves, fully intent on subjugating the relatively small kingdom that dares to defy its might. The lush wetlands become scorched fields, revealing the dark bedrock underneath and leaving a layer of ashen fog that clogs the lungs. The thick evergreen trees are mercilessly cut down and trampled over, leaving a bald patches of lands where previously the green ruled over. The peaceful, hardworking frontier villages are no more than piles of corpses and timber piled onto each other, their rotting stench gagging the soldiers.

Work is underway. The trenches are finished, and the priests and nuns have finished reading their rites as the bodies are carefully dropped into the openings. Being a mass grave, one might expect there will be some who can't take the sight, and it's right on the mark. A few of the younger soldiers and squires sit to the side, faces pale and blue after throwing up most of their breakfast, lunch, _and_ dinner, while even the professional diggers sourced from affiliated mercenary groups can't hide their disgust and anger.

A few hundred yards from the burial site, two people are having their meal. It consists of thick, warm soup from boar stock accompanied with day-old hardened bread with a side of sour wine. Though simple, it's considerably more lavish than what the soldiers are having in their marches, eating mostly dried food and water. The rich aroma from the soup comes from the copious amount of butter melting into it, a rare and quite expensive ingredients the common folk usually splurged only once or twice a year, and the softened boar meat cooked into it. The bread generously absorbed the thick liquid and softened considerably, easing its passage into the duo's stomach.

The taste is plainer than Mordred's liking, as Shirou always pampered her with various strange herbs and techniques, but her desires are elsewhere at the moment.

"Mordred, calm down. You will ruin your meal," Altria patiently chides.

Her daughter merely glares in silence, angry without having anything to vent it out on.

"I know you wish to be on the front lines, but now is not yet the time. Incidentally, i am in need of someone to oversee the war relief effort, and so you are here."

"Father, please cut the bullshit," Mordred spits out.

The surrounding attendants bristles at the rough words, more out of nervousness than contempt.

"You know I'm not good at administration or management. You know I prefer to swing my sword with something to protect behind me, rather than sitting here and collecting trash. You know leaving me here will only make my anger simmer and thicken, waiting to go out of control," she rants non-stop, her meal neglected to one side.

"Knowing all of this, why am I still here?! Please tell me the truth!"

She manages to contain herself from destroying the table with her both-palm slam, but just barely.

Altria, dressed in a casual male suit, sighs.

"Finish your meal first, Mordred. We shall take in private."

"You always say that," Mordred grumbles. "It's one of your bad points, Father. I hate it."

Confronting the frank comment, she smiles wryly. "I know. Please bear with it."

As soon as they finish their meal, and the cleaning has been taken care of, they begin their walk towards their main camp, not far from the common dining area. However, the way through there requires them to cross the burning pyre used to burn the uncomplete and rotting corpses that are unfit to be buried. The earlier vomit-inducing stench grows stronger, causing revolt inside Mordred's stomach.

Without a word, she quietly steps nearer, surprising the soldiers and volunteers waiting for the fire to burn out, as well as Altria.

One of the volunteers is a middle-aged man, immediately running and grovelling in front of Mordred's legs, hugging her soles. The soldiers hurry to separate him, but Mordred waves them aside.

"What's the matter, sir?"

"Oh... Your Highness..." the man weeps. "Why... Why must we suffer like this?! This is unfair! We... we're never involved in wars, n-never join mercenaries and such... so why? Why now?!"

Gritting her teeth, she reluctantly answers, "Because we are weak. You, me, my father, the knights, all of us... We're weak, just mere mortals."

"But are you not descendants of those mighty dragons?!" He cries out, hysterical. "Your powers... ugh... ugh..."

His cries turns into choking sobs, causing his tired back to tremble.

"If... mgh... If nothing can already be done... please... At the very least, let those bastards' blood be a tribute to my wife and daughter!"

He continues to sob incoherently, and after a few minutes, he leaves, walking like a corpse towards a place no one can tell.

Walking forward, closing to the high tent of flame enough to burn her locks, Mordred says to the worried soldiers, "Move aside."

Her clenched hand, already bone-white since she and Altria ate, slowly extends forward, palm thrust into the heart of the burning pyre.

Instantly, the fire surges higher. Higher. And higher, far to the sky to create a dazzling vermillion flame.

Altria stands there behind her daughter, speechless at the act.

Mordred kneels down, slowly, gingerly, in a pose of prayer. Her diminutive figure contrasts that of the gigantic tower of heat, illuminating her skin and clothes with blood-red color. Strangely, instead of fear, the glow enchants the soldiers to her figure, and they begin to kneel as well behind her, hearts sincere in wishing the souls eternal peace.

After a few short seconds, the flame dies out, leaving not a trace of ash.

Standing back up, she speaks to the soldiers around her, "Please make sure you did the proper rites, even without the guys from the church. Don't ever forget that."

The men, excited by her voice, replies enthusiastically, "Yes, Your Highness!"

Not sharing their emotion, she solemnly moves to Altria's side, continuing their journey towards Altira's private tent.

As they pass the tent flaps, Altria hesitates slightly, before awkwardly tries to grab Mordred's palm in a poor imitation of a comforting parent.

Her hand catches nothing but air.

"Father, don't," Mordred hisses, her voice barely audible amongs the eulogies in the background. "Right now... just don't... Don't touch me..."

The air around the king's hand feels hot enough to scald her skin, before Altria quickly a minute amount of magic energy to protect her from Mordred's out-of-control emission.

Once more, she finds herself in a situation both painful and confusing. What should she say at this moment? What should she do at this moment? The earlier refusal has indicated that she, Altria Pendragon, at the very least, does not rank high inside Mordred's list of trustees. She wants to console her, encourage her, anything that can make her a sliver happier, but the king just doesn't know what to say or do.

For years, decades, even, she has kept her emotions under a lid, working under the assumption that an emotional ruler will not make his rule last. She needed to make impartial, and sometimes ruthless, decisions in order to achieve the peace and grandeur she dreamt of. She has heard of the tales of normal men and women, about how they lived their lives and interact with each other, but they were mere tales. When faced by a real situation, her impotent feelings can't do anything to anyone.

She clenches her fist in a manner not dissimilar to her daughter earlier, just for different reasons of frustration.

What to do? Should she embrace Mordred? Should she say 'It's not your fault', hoping that will make, somehow, everything justified? Should she grant her dearest heir's wish and let her rampage around?

' _I don't know...'_ she sighs inwardly.

She feels the emotion of... envy, slowly budding inside her, one she doesn't know she possessed in the first place. Being a descendant of royalty, carrying the blood of the most gallant and majestic mythical creatures, she hardly lacks in materialistic needs. She never looked at the carefree kids running around in the village where she was raised, playing around without a care in the world, while she's cooped up and harshly trained in the way of knights and kings. She never glanced at the poorer children being taken care of lovingly by their parents, even in their impoverished conditions, eating warm meals happily as she lived away from her birth father and mother, never meeting them until the day they died. She never felt burdened by her duties, as her guards, low their position as it is, finds contentment in casual chats and drinks and gambles among their peers, while she's neck-deep in bureaucratic affairs deep inside the castle walls.

Never once she envied Guinevere and Lancelot for finding true love, or being able to properly sire a child. But now, oh, how she missed their guidance.

To be frank, Mordred isn't such a troublesome child as she feared. She has heard of large, grand kingdoms reduced to nothing but rubble in a single generation just because of a case of unworthy heirs. That said, Mordred, according to Altria, straddles the line between whether she's worthy of the throne or not. But... seeing her moody and gloomy like this doesn't sit right with her... something inside of her wants to see her usual carefree smile again...

Probably the 'dad gene'.

If someone asks her if she can leave everything to this girl and go on a holiday in Avalon... well, to be honest, she'll say no. There are parts where she feels her daughter may've done a better job than her, like in the interpersonal relationship department or as a morale-boosting symbol. Also, Mordred's strength perhaps already surpassed her own, if compared in equal terms without their respective weapons and armor. However, there are also parts of her personality unsuited to reign as a supreme ruler of the land, and the lack of capable advisor around Mordred is indeed a cause of concern.

Cecilia is a fine young woman, but without a capability to see and plan for the bigger things. She consigned herself to always serve behind Mordred, never allowing herself to overtake her master, and thus unable to obtain the vision necessary to guide or advise Mordred. Altria herself has this problem, which was why she created the Knights of the Round Table as a tool to gather talented individuals that complements her weaknesses.

Oh, and there's also Merlin and Guinevere. These two has always been supportive of her decisions, although shown in vastly differing ways, giving her peace of mind. Merlin's antics may be annoying, but at the very least, they distract her long enough for her to feel refreshed as she resume her normal duties. Guinevere is the model queen and wife, gently soothing her tired mind and soul every time she needs it.

It's such a shame she couldn't truly fulfill their desires.

A few minutes have passed since she began her contemplation, allowing Mordred to calm down somewhat.

Now... is the time to make a decision. Any delays from her part will probably set Mordred off again, and Altria chooses not to step on that landmine again. In some ways, she reminds the King of her younger self: idealistic, impulsive, and impatient, especially when injustice is performed in front of her eyes.

Well, if she overlaps her daughter and her younger self, of course they'd look identical, given their origins. But the feeling still lingers.

Luckily, before she can say anything, a flurry of violet petals bursts suddenly at one side of the tent.

"Whoa!"

Merlin nearly wets his pants as Clarent gently nudges its mighty tip on his nose, letting out a small stream of blood.

"Damn, man!" Mordred whines. "Don't scare me like that! I'm not in the mood!"

"That's my line!" He immediately retorts. "Who attacks someone as soon as they appear? Geez..."

Altria claps her hands, calming the two of them down.

"Now, now, Mordred, please stand down. And Merlin... she does have a point, you know."

"Why can't I have _any_ allies anymore in arguments?!"

Coughing, the King asks, "What news have you brought us? It must be very urgent indeed."

Sitting down and wiping his nose, he answers, "Yes, Your Majesty. Bad news, in fact."

Mordred tenses up. "Are they marching forward again?"

"No, the opposite," he shakes his head in response. "They're consolidating their bases, making my plan to cut off their route ineffective. The supply routes are many and varies, too tough to cut off with the numbers we have. Seems they're hell-bent on beating us this time."

"Tsk, how brutish," Altria complains. "Are they preparing to make this a defensive battle?"

There is a tactic used by a famous strategist in a land far away, one only a handful of beings in the current timeline know. He switches the normal convention for warfare tactics, and one of them is to switch the offensive and defensive side on the spot. If a supply route is secure, then a defensive stance is more favorable to an offensive one, but logically thinking, an invading army should be on the offense, trying their best to finish the battle quickly to avoid using up too much resources.

This tactic, though, reverses that logic, making the invaded side taking the offense. To prepare for this, the Romans have to quickly and efficiently set up a strong base of operations, preferably using a moving fortress to set their position. It's not impossible for their court mages, Merlin surmises, and now the Britons need to waste even more energy in a siege battle.

 _Make the host and the guest exchange roles._

All the people inside the tent probably has never heard such phrase in their life, given the limited amount of contact and exchange of cultures between the kingdoms in the world at the time. Originating nearly half a millenium ago in a country far east from the Roman's eastern border, the road to open trade to that imperial country hasn't been opened yet, leaving each sides of the world largely ignorant of each other's existence.

That said, the person that can explain the stratagem in detail is busy playing with a child-sized elf leader, so he can't come in like last time.

"I'll go."

"Mordred..." Altria tries to cut her off, but her daughter is faster.

"Father, I know what you're planning to break open their defenses, which is to target the leaders among a sown discord inside closed walls- What?" Mordred asks to the other two, who're looking at her like some sort of alien creature.

"Ah, no... just didn't expect you to talk tactics, Princess," Merlin rubs his neck awkwardly.

"Hmph! Like you can say that as well!" Mordred counters.

"Hey, at least I did my job these last 50 years!"

"Stop, you two," Altria warns, her magic energy leaking out slightly as a threat. Merlin immediately backs down, though Mordred turns her attention back to her father.

"A person that can move freely while still getting the job done is scarce, Father, as you know. Tristan is busy holding off the mercenaries they brought, while Lancelot is gone. I have to go, at least to minimize anymore lost lives."

"But I do not want you to be one of them!" Altria exclaims, nearly shouting. Grabbing Mordred's shoulders, she says sincerely, "Mordred, I know I have not been the best father for you... No, I am not even the best ruler for you. But... you are young, and if you are really my daughter, then... I know how reckless you will be if you see something you dislike."

"Oh?" Mordred smirks. "I never expected the prim-and-proper Father to have such exciting teenage years."

"Precisely," she replies, her eyes serious. "I... do not wish to lose another family again..."

Her words, combined with her grip on Mordred's shoulders, feels instantly heavy.

Closing her eyes, Altria takes a forceful deep breath, before slowly saying, "But... you are right. I have no choice. Therefore, heed this royal command, Dame Knight Mordred Pendragon."

Staring straight at Mordred's eyes with her moist ones, Altria commands, "Bring me victory, and come back alive. That is all."

Mordred smiles warmly in kind, and suddenly hugs Altria tightly, nearly crushing her father with her strength.

"Thank you, Father."

Without any other parting words, she leaves the camp that night with Cecilia in tow, as fast as a whirlwind.

"Don't they grow up fast?"

At Merlin's words, Altria simply smiles.

"I do not know, because I was not there when she was born."

"It's just a matter of speech, don't go semantic on me, geez..."

Gripping a fence pole tightly, she ponders to no one in particular, "Sometimes... I wonder if this is the right path."

Not knowing it's a mere rhetoric phrase, Merlin answers straight away, "What do you mean?"

"Eh? No, I was just thinking to myself."

"Sometimes, letting it out is better than keeping it in, Altria."

"I do not remember you telling me so when I pulled Caliburn out, Merlin. Why the change of heart?" She asks, "Are you not the one who made me this way? To be naught with emotions, to be the perfect king in the image you and Father visualize."

"If you are angry at me, then please do so. I won't resist," Merlin concedes. "But... yes, I too wonder if I was right or wrong back then."

"Oh? How rare it is for you to admit your mistakes, oh, great wizard..."

"Spare me the sarcasm, Altria," he sighs. "In any case, we're far too deep in this hole to pull out now. I just hope Mordred's fate is good..."

Altria shows an alarmed face.

"What do you mean by 'fate'?"

"Ah, did she not tell you? She has the fate of 'Kingslayer', you know. It seems you and her are destined to kill each other."

"No, if it is only that, then she has told me. However, I never knew you are capable in divination, Merlin."

Looking at his student incredulously, he asks, "Hold on, hold on, she _told_ you? As in... 'Hello, Father, I'm here to kill you!' kind?!"

His last words are spoken in a terrible attempt of impersonating a female's voice, and nowhere close to Mordred's own tone. He did nail the accent and mannerisms, though.

She giggles, answering, "Your acting is terrible. For that, she will kill you first before me, Merlin."

"I don't care about that!" He half-screams, half-laments, "You _knew_ , and still kept her around? Why? Don't tell me you're getting sentimental and all that crap!"

"Perhaps," she nods, much to Merlin's consternation. "Maybe I am getting sentimental in my old age, who knows?"

"You're not even thirty, brat. Don't play that game with me," Merlin deadpans.

"Forgive me, oh, esteemed teacher," Altria replies while smiling, voice full of sarcasm. "However, you are right. I should act back then, the first time we met. But... it seems a part of me still yearns to be a parent for her, no matter how elementary the part I did is."

Before she can continue explaining, Merlin holds up a palm to stop her.

"Alright, stop there. I don't think I'm in the state of mind to listen peacefully, so I'm bailing. I'll research this psychological phenomenon of yours as well while I'm at it, at least to calm me down," he excuses himself politely. "You keep on playing dad, okay? Doesn't seem to be doing such a bad job at it, in any case."

"I hope you will understand, in time," she bows respectfully.

Snorting, he teleports out of Camelot back to his Workshop, partly confused with his charge.

Exhaling a tired breath, she sinks back onto her chair. Made of carefully constructed leather and thin lacquer, it's far more comfortable than the makeshift wooden ones used by her commanders out in the field, or the cold, hard ground, for that matter. She once frowned at the excessive use of luxury, thinking it has no place in a field for killing people, but for now, she's grateful she didn't throw this chair away.

Even though she wanted to explain her own feelings to Merlin earlier, she herself still hasn't come to grips with it, much less able to picture it in words. She has indeed identified her desire as one of those new parents experienced, some sort of instinctive need to care and nurture for her offspring. The initial shock and disgust at what Morgan has produced has melted away, replaced by a strange, warm, glowing sensation in her chest.

' _Is it love?'_

Letting out a damsel-like thought, she ponders deeply. Everything she's feeling about Mordred right now is consistent with a parent's love for her child, but... The problem she's having is with her emotionally-stunted heart, added with her inexperience receiving love from her parents, actual or adopted, makes her hesitate in fully claiming that emotion and letting it take over.

What if it causes her to turn a blind eye to Mordred's mistakes? Her weaknesses? What if her own well-honed impartial judgement as a king is clouded by it? What if it dooms the Kingdom of Britain anyway?

Those are the fears blocking the bud of love to grow inside her. It makes her increasingly frustrated at the unbridgeable distance between her and Mordred, enough to destroy whatever she has brought into creation in her kingdom if her daughter does indeed take the throne. It's a paranoid thought, but it's still possible.

Her task is made even more difficult by the lack of space for the being named 'Altria Pendragon' inside Mordred's heart. Clearly, through her interactions with her daughter, she practically worships her caretaker, the 'Shirou' being, so much so Altria even felt envy at him. Then, 'Cecilia' takes the next spot, occupying a same role Mordred is to Altria as she is to her master. The person called 'Altria Pendragon' is slotted way, way down the order, comparable to a 'mere acquaintance'.

In a way, her own daughter, nary a few years old since she was born as a homunculus, is far more emotionally mature than her, contrary to her usual antics.

The thought terrifies her, more than the Roman invasion.


	26. Bated Breath

**Hey, guys! How's it going? First, an apology for the slower turnout lately. You know, IRL stuff. I'm afraid this tempo will keep up for a while, because I'm getting busier and busier after the summer holidays. Hopefully, all of you will enjoy the story enough to keep on following it after a slow update! Hahaha!**

 **Now, for the OCs in this story, they're going to stay as side characters, but I still have to flesh them out. I hate OCs that are just there as shout-outs or parodies, so for all of you that pines for more focus on Shirou and Mordred, please be patient. After all is said and done, they _are_ the main characters, so thank you for your tolerance.**

 **I'm not sure what else there is to say apart from I'm impatiently waiting for Heaven's Feel. For those of you that answered my inquiry about the F/GO OVAs, thank you for the suggestions and opinions. I really appreciate it, even though I can only write about it. Thank you very much!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own any of the following characters, only their characterization. This _is_ fanfiction, after all.**

* * *

There are two shadows shooting forwards across the grassy plains, although there's only one set of steps can be heard softly stomping on the green carpet every now and then.

I am rushing madly, running slower than I'd like, and as such my heart is throbbing nervously. Over the sound of my silent footsteps, the thump-thump-thump is as loud as bass drums beaten directly beside my head.

Filvis is struggling to keep up at my side, but this is the minimum pace required to reach Mordred.

I made a blunder.

I've successfully enlisted the help of the elves after my unplanned foray into their territory. Originally, I had only planned to rescue Filvis, at the very least take her off death row, but as the opportunity presented itself, I gladly took it and stealthily manipulated them to help me. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the elves had already decided to rage against Nimue's machinations, making my secondary objective that much easier.

Come to think of it, considering the friendly relationship we have right now, the elves back then didn't shy from physical contact as much as Filvis did when we first met. Did Cheryl's leadership change the culture? She definitely didn't mind our physical contact during our spar, although Filvis explained that it's a sign of the elves accepting me as a proper ally. She herself is still keeping a small distance between our bodies at all times, though it has been considerably reduced until now.

I refrain from using Ghostlight Firefly to move into the next realm of speed, because Filvis simply couldn't keep up. With her Magecraft, she has boosted herself to a speed far beyond any normal magi, but to me, it's still far too slow for our predicament.

How did I miss on calculating the different way time flows between Worlds?

I only spent less than two weeks in the elven realm, but a few months has passed in the real world... or the Present World, to be precise.

I only realized it due to Alaya's notice. It warned me about passing between literal time zones, and clued me in on what's happening. Taking a few moments to consult the Akashic Records, Mordred is currently heading into a fight.

Now, it's not like I'm overprotective or underestimating her abilities. Hey, as her teacher, my fake pride won't allow me to admit my student lost, or had an inferior ability to her opponent. If so, then her Instinct and her experience should be able to keep her out of trouble, at least to survive until help comes. However, this battle is quite different.

She's not going to defeat Scáthach one-handed, that's for sure.

I was notified of her injury through the Akashic Records. To be frank, having this omniscient encyclopedia may sound like cheating, but since I can't consult it on the move, and my very existence constantly changes its contents for the future, its most desirable powers are rendered moot. I mainly use it as a long-range reconnaissance technique, although not actually being at the scene of action drastically reduces my interpretations of its accuracy.

Her right arm was damaged when she recklessly parried and plowed through Gáe Bolg using Clarent's full power when she hadn't fully grasped its full intricacy. Normal combat should be fine, but now her main Noble Phantasm is sealed. Fighting against a master magus, an immortal and semi-divine one, is going to be difficult for her at full strength, much less her condition now.

Additionally, this duel isn't going to be fair like the last time. As she is traveling to the Roman encampment at full speed, trying to break the blockade and disrupt their formation, Scáthach will be waiting for her in ambush. Her Divinity resists Akasha's attempts to identify her current state, and her data is outdated.

It's the one thing I fear the most: things I can't see, both figuratively and literally.

The image of Mordred, with her bloodstained dress lying on the ground, haunts my mind.

Wincing heavily to clear the image, I rush forward, pushing Filvis to her breaking point.

' _Don't you dare die on me, Mordred...!'_

* * *

Sloppy.

Very sloppy.

To review its own agents, those words are enough for Alaya.

Yes, the #10 Heroic Vessel managed to trump over Gaia's creation, but he, Galehaud, was a mere pawn in the larger scheme. Taking in allies and moving behind the scene should be the priority, as the moment SHIROU stepped into the spotlight in order to combat the demon, he has lost a step or two to the Lady of the Lake.

Perhaps his stumbles can be attributed to his growing familiarity of emotions? The Heroic Vessels are deliberately unconstrained in this regard in order to gain humanity's trust and favor, and lead them away from self-destruction. Yes, the process of eleveating their puny souls into one befitting of a Heroic Vessel may have damaged their emotional faculties, but it is negligible in the long run.

Its predecessor, the Counter Guardian project, achieved success by sheer pragmatism, but its a mere short-term cure. The Heroic Vessel infiltrates deep into humanity's belly, far into its darkest depths, and change it all for the better. To be accepted in such a place, emotions... or ability to show emotions, to be precise, is necessary, and SHIROU has not done too badly on this aspect.

As a matter of fact, this problems he's been having is odder simply because he has been successful in the past. Alaya took a big gamble, even by its own standards, on his first deployment, simply because he's the first born sample who managed not to self-implode. Sent to a large kingdom in ancient Sumeria, against a powerful and arrogant queen, he managed to turn the fate of the kingdom into a slower, more peaceful descent, compared to its original destructive legends. He laid a path for humanity to advance faster, but also safer.

Over the next few deployments, he should have more of a reign over his own emotions, Alaya surmised. It didn't forbid him to indulge in it, merely to use it to his advantage and not lose himself in it. Love, in particular, is a tricky emotion to handle, but he experienced it well, achieving the 'happy ending' many popular scholar wrote about. It's not in Alaya's particular goals that he's happy, only just enough to keep him motivated and focused.

Perhaps he was simply overflowing with it? Indeed, faking something for so long would even fake one's own perception of the fakery, so much so he'd be disillusioned whether it's real or not. Alaya detected some distress on his part, but because it's not major, like it always has been, it took no further notice of it. Busied by the preparation of its next two ventures, #15 and #27, it put its belief in its long-serving enforcer.

It may not be a mistake, despite his recent setbacks. Perhaps Alaya's own bar is set too high, and as it comes to this realization, it decides to give him more time. What matters is the result, not the means to achieve it. The curse of the Heroic Vessels will render him untouched and unearthed by history anyway, so whatever he does, as long as he wins the endgame, is naught.

If it was human, it'd raise a mug of alcohol in best regards, but since it isn't, it'd settle for a non-disruptive action instead.

' _Hold your horses, boy... Their fate lies in your hands.'_

* * *

"Father..." Mordred sighs, "What is the meaning of this?"

In front of her, three men are standing at attention. Well, two men, and one woman dressed as a man. Clad in civilian clothes, their regal bearings distorted the disguise somewhat, leading Cecilia to smiling in amusement.

Altria, waving at Gawain and Tristain beside her, replies calmly, "Since the Roman fortress is more important than we thought, I decided to reinforce your unit in order to heighten the chance of success."

"Your Majesty, are you sure you're not being overprotective of Her Highness?" Tristain asks bluntly.

"Absolutely not," Altria vehemently denies. "Why would I worry about my daughter heading to an enemy encampment when injured? Tristain, you must be mistaken. Don't you think so too, Gawain?"

The person in question shakes his head. "Please don't bring me into the argument."

Mordred feels a headache is incoming, but silently endures it.

"Master, at least nod or something," Cecilia whispers to her.

"Don't wanna. Don't care."

"Geez, Master..."

Skillfully, her sole student strikes another topic of conversation between her and the other three, in an effort to draw attention away from her master's ignorance. Although Altria and the two Knights of the Round Table are probably already used to her personality, outwardly expressing her annoyance at the entourage is still bad manners, no matter if she's a commoner or of royal blood. Cecilia thinks so, and as such tries to save her master's dignity in front of the trio.

Gawain bites the bait, if only due to his attraction to her. Inwardly, Altria winces at her daughter's rejection of her company. Tristain remains neutral, observing their interactions while giving some comments here and there, to avoid looking as aloof as their annoyed princess.

It's a testament of their skill that they manage to keep talking even in full sprint on their horses. Normally, the vibrations and the bumps on horseback will make the air exiting a person's lungs to scatter and unable to form a coherent sound, but the five of them regulates their breathing, acquired through hard training, and soldiers on. Well, four of them, and one still mulling about something.

As they leave the safety of their main camp, their voices quiet down, shifting to hand signals as a means of communication.

' _Even though we'll get there in a few hours if we used Shirou's crafted horse...'_ Mordred grumbles internally.

She wonders why Altria is becoming more and more attached to her. _'Like, in a forceful manner, completely ungraceful at all.'_ It's growing more and more irritating, as her father's presence always means her movements will be restricted to some degree. Princess this, Princess that... Being called that, and expected to behave at least resembling one, tires her out. Getting closer to her father will only bring benefits to her, she knows, but this cooped up lifestyle just... way different than the 'glorious' way she imagined.

Many people will envy her, not just because her father is the King of Britain. How many estranged children is accepted back into their family? How many of them are even alive in this war-torn era? The fact Altria didn't chase her out with the intent to kill as she revealed her identity was already a blessing.

Her darker side, the vanquished and assimilated one, would've still harbored some twisted combination of love and hate for her father. The anger of being denied the throne, being denied of her ancestry and her blood, being killed and disgraced throughout history... There are many cases where she should've been drowning herself in a self-destructing cycle of hatred, but she feels none of those negative emotions regarding her father right now. Sure, Altria is overbearing, and sure, this act of overprotection is irritating, but her father is a person she can grow to respect.

If Shirou asked whether she has grown to love Altria as a father or not... the answer would've probably been a 'no'.

All these years, the place in her heart reserved for a father figure has been completely filled with the image of that red-haired man. No, to be precise, before she met Cecilia, her entire being was devoted only to him. She adored him, understandable due to her earlier belief that he has created her, given her life, happiness, love, and fulfillment, and even the revelation of her origins dented her emotions little.

Now, after her travels, she gained much and learned a lot. She made comrades, taught and be taught by Cecilia, and met her father. However, the only one who managed to carve out a place in her heart was her beloved student alone. The others... well, they're nice and polite and all, but none has deserved a special place inside her.

Including Altria Pendragon.

Did her preconception of Altria's nature cloud her judgement? She has thought about it, but found little to no reason why she would hate her father due to some repressed memories. Certainly, if she was a mere empty puppet, created to kill the King as her mother intended, the memories of fate might've consumed her. But with Shirou guiding her every single second of her young life, it came down to almost nothing. The most she ever felt was fear, but it was a fear of herself... of her darker self, something that lurked deep within her. But, hey, what person wouldn't feel the same? To see your inner self in that way: monstrous, bloodthirsty, mad with rage...

Shivering, she steals a glance backwrds at her father, who's astutely keeping watch of the surroundings like a guardian, not a king who's surrounded by her subordinates.

Altria notices her gaze, and smiles lightly in reply.

Mordred instinctively turns away, uncaring of Altria's feelings.

The silence between them is maintained until they arrive at their checkpoint, a few miles away from the Roman encampment.

* * *

In the middle of the night, under the dim light of the cloud-covered waning moon, a soft, androgynous singing voice hums across the top rampart of the makeshift fort. No patrol roams here, partly because this person spooks them off even by his utmost and constant politeness, and partly because the top parts are the least desirable area to guard at this time. Additionally, the young boy specifically requests Anastasius to be given free roam of the place, a request the Emperor strangely granted without much of a fuss.

Galahad continues to play some tunes through his vocal chords, though the mix and match of tones doesn't join into a coherent song. Parts of local music here, parts of imported bards there, he is simply following what his heart feels like singing at the time, without a care in the world. His innocent eyes gleam through the dark, with a flare and maturity unusual to be found in a boy his age.

Swinging his legs childishly as he sits above some unused boxes, he says to thin air, "It is an honor to welcome you, Lady Scáthach."

A female voice, rich and velvety, rings right back inside his ear, despite her physical form is not in his field of vision.

"How rare... What a talented boy you are, brat."

He lowers his head in gratitude.

"It is nothing much to boast about. My father is the person to look for, if you are interested in talents, my lady."

Even though he can't see his talking partner, somehow, a chuckling expression is communicated to his mind.

"You shouldn't be such a smooth-talker from a young age, brat. Trust me, it'll get you into trouble in your next years..."

"'Smooth-talker'?" Tilting his head to one side in confusion, he asks, "How can a talk be smooth? I do not understand, my lady."

"Nevermind," she waves the issue off, amused at his innocence. "I'm just intrigued of my battle partner, so take this as small talk, nothing so serious!"

Smiling lightly, he nods. "I understand. I shall try to... is it 'wind down'?"

"Yup, about right," the female voice replies back in his head. "By the way, are you alone?"

"As you can see, I am," he bluntly replies.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," Scáthach giggles. "Are your parents not here? Your father, at the very least? What about the Lady of the Lake?"

"Father and Lady Nimue is still in hiding, thus I cannot reveal their locations. For that, I apologize, Lady Scáthach," he bows to thin air. "If you are inquiring their presence in this campaign, then no, I do not believe they plan to participate."

"I see..." Scáthach hums in understanding. "By the way, just a tip: don't bow and grovel so easily. Young brats like you won't go far and gets exploited instead of given mercy, especially with these foreigners."

He starts to bow to express his gratitude, but heeding her warning, only grins in return.

"I shall abide by your advice."

"See? That's the seriousness coming back," she teases. "Come on, like you said, 'wind down' a little! Pick up some slangs or slurs or whatnot!"

"I... do not believe it is appropriate," he timidly answers. "Actions like thus will stain my father's name..."

She comments darkly inside her head, unsent over the telepathy, _'Though his fate is already screwed no matter what you do, brat...'_

In a remote location, which in actuality is a mere stone's throw away from the fort's walls, she ponders quietly. Her talking partner seems to not mind the sudden silence. Although posting a young kid like him on top a harsh, cold night without any bonfires doesn't do any favors towards her view for the Emperor, she starts to assess the boy's abilities.

Having separated a layer of the World to slip her own, in a mockery of a Reality Marble, she doesn't have to fear any attacks while she's resting. It's a convenient little pocket dimension, and she's beginning to contemplate to swallow Galahad inside this space for a spar to alleviate the boredom. However, that would mean revealing her trump card, and even if she doesn't believe the righteous boy will reveal her abilities to the enemy, he's just too gullible. Especially if that Heroic Vessel comes according to plan...

The pure white spear in her hand vibrates, as if conveying his own excitement of the coming battle. Or, more accurately, his excitement at being of use to his master after all this years. She responds by gripping the shaft tighter, as a way to curb her own increasing bloodlust. She shouldn't lose control here and screw everything.

' _Alright, time to use that patience you've learned over the last few centuries...'_

At times like these, she longs for the presence of her departed students.

How could things go so wrong for them? She taught them well, both in martial arts and mannerisms, yet they fell to some flimsy destined-fate bullshit. She loved them as her own sons, and they did to each other like brothers, but it didn't prevent them from facing off in a life-or-death battle, vying for a stupid goal. In the end, they both fell victim to their own desires, in a place she couldn't reach and save them.

In any case, what's in the past is the past. After her students passed, she found the world to hold nothing which caught her eye, such is the curse of immortality. The people she groomed to surpassed her had actually did that, but just as her existence was elevated beyond mortal reach, they disappeared from her grasp. To wish to die... she's mocking her students' memory and legacy, but she has long thrown away such clinging to trivial things.

Now, the person who can fulfil her wish is coming. As of right now, Mordred's ability won't be able to do the job, but hopefully, with some prodding, the demigoddess can unlock the blonde's full potential.

If that failed, then the person coming after her next should be able to do it... right?

' _Well, let's find out...'_

An alarm rings in her mind.

Speaking to Galahad again through her mind, she warns, "Get ready."

"H-Huh?" He asks, confused.

"They're coming, brat!"

* * *

"T-This is...!"

With shaking hands, Guinevere scans the documents scattered on the table in front of her. Her breath chokes midway through her throat as her brain catches up with the realization of what she has just read. A savage shiver shoots down through her vertebrae, reminiscent of the time she accompanied Altria to hunt monsters.

"Like what you see?"

Her body is too weak because of the horrifying notes to jump in shock, but her heart leaps to her mouth nonetheless at Nimue's question.

"But... this is impossible!"

"Tsk, tsk," Nimue clicks her tongue, wagging her finger playfully. "You have seen much as a queen, yet you cannot stomach this?"

"How can anyone stomach your evil, sick experiments, damn witch?! This is... You're insane!" Guinevere screams in retaliation. Forgetting her own feeble strength, she throws the bundle of paper at Vivian's body, uncaring in rage.

The papers stop in midair, before stacking themselves neatly along with the rest of their brethren on the table. The flurry of wood pulp doesn't calm the ex-queen down, though, so Nimue simply takes a seat to bear this human female's futile anger.

"Have you forgotten our lord's last wish? I am merely granting it this way, no?" Nimue says, chuckling darkly.

" _Don't mention Altria with your vile mouth!"_ Guinevere explodes.

For a moment, she considers throwing herself into wildly attacking Nimue, as she did in the past. This... abomination of a woman has insulted, trampled, conspired against everything Guinevere held dear, continuously mocking Altria's effort like she knew better! The Queen stomached it in the past, but like poison slowly simmering inside her belly, there exists a time when it must be let out.

However, this time, she refrained from it.

Each and every time she lost her temper, this body-hijacker would gain pleasure from it, since _it_ derived happiness from chaos sown among other people. Either through words or actions, Nimue would always try to goad her into breaking her facade, one she trained for many years to stand beside Altria, just to take another piece of her dignity away. No, this time, she won't let Nimue dirty her thoughts of her beloved husband ever again.

Ironically, she has already done so when she cheated with Lancelot, but humans always failed to instrospect themselves, so it's natural for her to do just that.

"Oh? Not going to throw a tantrum like last time?" Nimue asks, smugly grinning. "After all the trouble of preparing a new subduing spell for you, Your Highness... Aaahhh..."

Scowling, she sharply retorts, "Like hell I'll fulfill your sick desires, bitch."

"Language, language, Your Highness... Dear me! It seems confinement has done little to constrain your true nature, yes?" Giggling, Vivian's lovely face blossoms as the personality inside her body grows happier and happier. "What His Majesty will look like if she hears you like that..."

"Shut up!"

She tried to be patient under Nimue's captive. After all, with Lancelot here, there's nothing else she can do to escape. She is a mere mortal with a little royal blood from the previous generation. She's neither skilled nor powerful like her lover, or magically-gifted like her husband, and any attempts from her side to sabotage Nimue's operations all have ended in failure.

The times she spent inside this enclosed complex made her suspect her every move was being monitored through some obscure means. Everything she did, aimed at the magus's destruction, was either prevented or cancelled just in the right moments, leaving her helpless. So, after failures and failures, she has simply given up on trying to resist, and instead focused her efforts to please Lancelot and his newborn son.

But, this... this is just monstrous...

"Well, don't be too fussed about it," Nimue casually waves it away. "Do you know why you lot can't come close to finding the Holy Grail, much less wield it? I have just answered that question with Galahad, so be proud of that boy."

She gingerly picks a particular sheet of parchment from the now-neat pile, playfully scanning it with her eyes.

"We... no, I mean the court of Camelot, including my current host, are far too impure for the Holy Grail to grace us with its presence. Yes, if you still haven't understand after sneaking around with my notes, the Holy Grail _chooses_ its wielder, not the other way around. Galahad is my best creation, and even as I say that, I never tampered with his body much. His base parameters are so good that the Grail has already chosen him when he's still inside his mother's womb!"

"That's impossible..." Guinevere shivers. "Unless... How can you know so early?"

"I _know_ ," Nimue lets out a knowing gaze. "That's all you need to know, Your Highness."

Chuckling, she ecstatically explains, "And now... the power your beloved King has sought all these years will be shown in full on her face. So, be still, and witness a miracle in the making, Your Highness."

* * *

Laying on his back atop lush grass, Merlin scans the dark sky. He's not a practicioner of Astrology, but even if he was, the night is too cloudy to get a proper reading. Familiar scents of the wilderness wafts into his nostrils, bringing back fond memories of his favorite student.

Yes, many of his students have accused him of playing favorites, but that's the way in the world of Magecraft. The most talented one grabs everything, while the rest will toil the remainder of their lives never exceeding their talent. No amount of hard work will change that.

In the future, this viewpoint will be challenged severely, but here and now, he sees no reason to change his belief.

What matters now is to confirm the result of his Clairvoyance.

Being granted the "Eyes which Sees through the World", he secretly manipulated things behind the scenes to achieve his initial vision of the Kingdom of Britain. Alas, the fact someone like him exist at all renders everything he sees through his Eyes moot, because just by breathing and living, the future he envisioned will shift and change accordingly. Therefore, he stuck to obscure prophecies instead, with the finer details unconfirmed, because it had the highest chance of success.

And now, a Heroic Vessel is involved.

To be honest, with his capabilities, he still hasn't figured out the exact mechanics of that program. Is it just another moniker for the fated-to-fail Counter Guardian program, or something else? Is it effective? How long does it last? How many lives will it take?

Using his Eyes until they bleed failed to give him the result he needed, unable to reach Alaya or the Akashic Records to search for information.

His existence... a person called 'Shirou' by the young princess, is a spanner in his works. Back then, he had an option to search and confront the Heroic Vessel the moment Shirou's existence was confirmed, but doing so would lead to troublesome consequences, according to his visions. Shirou's allegiance to this day is unknown, even with Mordred vouching for him, because Merlin is the 'seeing is believing' type of person. If he can't confirm it directly, then for all he knows, Shirou is a dangerously armed third party who can derail Merlin's actions and predictions on a whim.

'Dangerous'. That's the focal word.

And now, everything he can think of is the woman he lost, instead of the man he sought.

\- _Master, I have returned!_

Every attempt his mind makes at formulating a plan ahead, at the very least to limit the damage Nimue would've planned, is shaken by a torrent of memories, ones he should've stuffed deep inside.

\- _Don't stare like that, geez... It's embarassing..._

The first time they met, she was a street urchin, lost after the war. Noticing her potential, he took her in on a whim. His teacher in Magecraft has been his mother, so he thought of having a student as well, just to see how it felt. After all, a man had to leave his legacy in the world.

Her element, 'Flora', is a good match for his style of Magecraft. The element that gave him the title 'Supreme Magus' is 'Rainbow', a versatile element which can suit any situation, but because of Vivian's innate ability and eventual reputation, he was pasted the moniker 'Magus of Flowers' as well, even if his ability far outscope that title. Well, he also likes the sight and scent of a flower field, so he didn't mind.

But that title has now become a shackle of the past he must overcame.

\- _You'll... take responsibility, right?_

Grasping the grass bed supporting him so tightly they disintegrate, he exhales a tired sigh.

"And now, here comes a foolish challenger."

The sound of heavy equipment trampling over the local plants is very muffled, likely enchanted to reduce detection, but the tremor in the ground conveys to him the identity of this person, likely coming to assassinate him.

What a foolish thought.

"You're a complete fool, Lancelot," he murmurs.

His voice, though small, is carried over by the wind into Lancelot's mind. It's a useful spell he developed in place of telepathy, which is a complicated Magecraft and not his forte. Whether the knight's mind can process the sound or not is unconfirmed, so Merlin raises his upper body to look at the armored man.

What he sees makes his breath caught in his throat.

Running his hand through his mystical white hair, he smiles mockingly.

"Damn... she really did a number on you, oh, stupid perfect knight?"

A low moan escapes from behind the black full-body armor in protest.

Behind his condescending expression, Merlin grits his teeth at the prospect of fighting Lancelot, but not for reasons onlookers may have guessed.

In terms of physical fighting power, the half-incubus Merlin far outstrips the knight, if they fight without any enhancements. Naturally, his Eyes has noticed how the black armor significantly boosts Lancelot's power, with a quirk that stole his ability to speak to focus on his fighting prowess and battle insight.

He's facing a berserker, no longer a knight.

Magically, he's confident his Magecraft can break through that piece of enchanted metal, Lancelot has no talent in it, giving the court magus a massive advantage in a duel, with this amount of distance between them.

No, what he's concerned about is the person moving behind the scenes.

With this encounter, no matter the result, Vivian must be killed.

Steeling his heart despite his emotional pain, the place where Lancelot is standing on explodes, sending him crashing a few hundred meters away in a crater on the ground.

"Come at me, fallen knight. I'll finish this once and for all."

* * *

"There it is."

The quiet voice is a signal from Tristan to his group, and they perfectly stops in unison just before the enemy's detection range.

Actually, apart from him and Mordred, the most the rest of them can see is a small shadown in the distance of a random shape. Alone, the others might've guessed it to be a foreign beast or a random large outcrop of rock, but in reality, it's the Roman fortress. Crafted by the best of the enemies' magi and combat engineers, it's a true marvel of construction feat, a design that future historians will marvel if they got their hands on its design.

Too bad it'd be burnt down to the ground tonight.

Taking out Failnaught, he readies his arrows.

"Would you like me to strike first, Your Majesty? Or shall I scout?"

The decision maker lies slightly behind him, positioned in the middle as always. Her gear makes it cumbersome to carry for mules or human helpers, so she carries it herself, although the bulk makes it difficult to move in a group, much less when positioned in the middle. However, hidden underneath the long cloth slung diagonally on her back, is a mighty weapon of Altria's which is more useful in practical combat than Excalibur or Avalon.

After mulling for a while, she shakes her head.

"I shall take the first strike. The rest of you will be the vanguard, then I shall fire my attack. I shall trail your group in a moment."

She carefully undoes the cloth concealing the spear in her back.

Upon laying her sight on it, Mordred shivers and pales suddenly.

Noticing her daughter's condition, Altria carefully asks, "Mordred? Are you alright?"

Gulping, she nervously replies, "Um... will that _thing's_ range consume us as well?"

"Of course I shall regulate it, do not worry," Altria smiles to calm her daughter down. "It is one of my trusted weapons, and I am confident in my handling of it."

"S-Sure... hahaha..." Mordred awkwardly laughs, much to the confusion of the rest of the group.

With a small flash of light, Mordred's practical leather clothes transforms into her ornate and femininely fashionable armor. The two men of the group shifts their gaze to one side due to the armor's inherent skin exposure, but the woman in question doesn't seem to mind much. Compared to a normal, field-tested armor, her armor can be considered to border on indecency, as if it's designed to fulfil men's fantasies, not used in combat.

Altria and Cecilia stealthily moves to cover Mordred's appearance, blocking her temporarily from Gawain's and Tristan's gaze.

From Mordred's exposed back, Cecilia asks in a low voice, "Master?"

"Hm?"

"Can I get that transformation sequence as well in the future?"

"Er... no idea. I mean, I'm not even this armor's creator or designer. You should ask Shirou or Nyneve later if you want one."

"I understand."

"Yes, thank you, both of you," Altria deadpans. "We do not have much time, so please hurry."

Nodding, the four of them sans the King runs off towards the fortress's direction.

Altria inhales and exhales once, focusing her mind and magic energy into the large lance.

Originally, Rhongomyniad is created for mounted combat, hence its size. To wield it on foot requres extreme dexterity and strength, neither which Altria lacks. Its length, compared to her body size, is indeed cumbersome, but not especially fatal against normal enemies. Its special attack lacks the finesse for it to be practical in one-on-one duel, but for artillery strikes, it's in another level entirely.

Slowly but surely, particles of light coalesces on its tip.

"Holy spear, anchor."

By her command, her Prana Cores burst into life, sinking her legs a half-feet into the ground.

She lowers the spear, lining its tip on the blurry shadow in the distance. Cementing the image of a column of light striking it true in the middle, she begins the next phase.

"Pierce, the thirteen fangs."

The area behind the tip ignites, showering her vision with a pure white magic energy.

If this strike misses, then her comrades will be in danger. Not only will they face the entire weight of the Roman army, they also will have to deal with whatever reinforcements Nimue no doubt has prepared. Comsidering the last time it happens, Cecilia was injured to the point of unconsciousness, while Mordred nearly lost the function of her right arm, it's not a risk she can take.

The image of her daughter lying in the pool of her own blood terrifies her.

Gripping the shat with both her hands, she unleashes the entirety of her available magic energy.

" _Rhongomyniad!"_

The missile fires, faster than the speed of thought, striking its mark.


	27. Dance Prologue

**Hey, guys! Glad you all liked that last chapter! Here's a new one, and hopefully I can maintain this update schedule. Now, for some mailbag responses.**

 **Holix25: Sadly, I'm not going to put Zeltrech anywhere _near_ my universe. He's a tough character to write about, even more to characterize and develop, and I just don't have the spare creativity to accommodate him.**

 **neverendingZero: Again, sadly, this alternate universe's Altria is supposed to be closer to her original self, one that hasn't made her contract with the Grail. Therefore, it doesn't make sense for me to make her recognize Shirou since the timeline doesn't add up. Sorry for getting your hopes up. I hope you will still enjoy this story.**

 **Dragonjek: Yes, they belong to a separate series that I'll publish in the future, but still a part of the same universe and concept. I can only ask you to be patient until their reveal.**

 **thepkrmgc: Because of a lack of information, I can't produce their relationship as detailed as I'd like, so I cut it short. I blame Wikipedia.**

 **Now, read, enjoy, and review! Don't forget to click those 'follow' and 'favorite' buttons!**

* * *

The missile of light roars overhead, as Mordred and her group run full sprint towards one side of the fort wall.

Suddenly, Mordred shouts, "Everybody, stop!"

As the others turn their heads towards her in confusion, Rhongomyniad's attack hits its target, bathing the dark sky like a midnight sun.

Or did it?

Unused to the strong light, Cecilia, Gawain, and Tristan winces in pain as their pupils suddenly contracts. Mordred, meanwhile, isn't perturbed due to not looking in the same place as them.

"Come out, you sneaky woman," she calls out to thin air.

Between the forest which was their entry point and the temporary fort is a small clearing, a place where they stand now. It's not wide or even, a simple patch of land made up of hurriedly chopped wood and shrubs to make way for the fort's construction. Slight elevation here and there can complicate troop movement if not tended properly, and thus the Romans opted to open up the area slightly for better movement.

Standing there in the open is plain suicide, though.

Shouts of warning and alarm bells blare in their full glory from inside the fort, giving away their surprise attack. From this distance, a normal arrow won't hit, and it's a distance that can be closed in just 20 seconds in top speed. So close, yet so far away, as they observe the still-standing wall after Rhongomyniad's light dies down.

"Impossible..." Gawain mutters, eyes open in shock.

Gripping his arm, Tristan urgently whispered, "Pull yourself together! It's a wall, and the enemy who made it is here!"

Indeed, moments before the holy spear's attack landed, it crashed into an invisible barrier which repelled it at the cost of its own destruction. Being made not to last improved its single-attack resistance, and that's exactly what it did, stopping Altria's attack. Granted, it's a blow meant to be launched from horseback, but the might of the person constructing the barrier must be mighty, indeed.

The air in front of them shimmers, before popping open like a water bubble.

A beautiful woman, clad in skin-tight black clothing that leaves little to imagination, steps out. Her gait is firm, a sign of a seasoned warrior, yet also predatory, containing a hint of wildness in her character. Her beauty is astonishing, so much so the two males present involuntarily gulp in desire, despite both already having a commitment already, or in Gawain's case, a mental one, but it serves the same role in his heart.

Sultry and alluring even when in combat attire, Scáthach smiles at the group, her eyes already fixed on Mordred's figure.

"Sharp eyes you have there, my dear."

"Shut up," Mordred snaps. "Your existence actually manages to disgusts me, woman. I don't care what your intentions are, but this is the day I slay you!"

Mordred is about to charge, but Cecilia suddenly positions herself diagonally in front of her master with her sword drawn.

Before she can ask Cecilia to back off, her student's sword receives a massive hit, sending the blonde girl skidding backwards. Mordred's enhanced senses immediately shows the grave of her blunder: a person was hiding there with Scáthach's Magecraft, waiting for the moment where she lost control of her head and attacked.

A chipped metal falls out of Cecilia's sword, falling with a small chink to the ground.

"Miss Cecilia! Are you alright?!" Worried, Gawain hurriedly rushes to her.

"Head's up!"

Ignoring him, Cecilia warns the rest of the group, but Tristan reacts the fastest, even before her shout.

A sonic boom hits squarely at the invisible opponent, cancelling the concealment spell.

"Tsk, tsk... Brat, like I predicted, you're still too wet behind the ears," Scáthach chides.

Galahad nimbly adjusts his balance back, not showing any effects of Tristan's arrow.

Confused, he tilts his head to one side innocently, asking, "Uncle, how can you see me? I was invisible."

Ignoring Altria's snicker at the moniker 'uncle', Tristan coolly says, "Trade secret for us archers, boy. Besides, you do not have a stake in this, so step away. This is my final warning... I shan't hesitate on a child."

"Oh, I wouldn't underestimate him if I were you, honorable knight," the spearwoman warns. "He takes in his father's skills quite well."

"'Father'?" The redhead archer queries. "Who are you..."

Widening his eyes, he grabs both Gawain and Cecilia to one side.

"Sir Tristan, what are you planning?" Cecilia quietly asks.

"Not much," he admits. "The three of us will take him. Leave Her Highness some room. I can tell we will be naught but hindrance against that woman."

Gawain, baffled, asks, "Three-on-one against a small child? Tristan, are you sane?"

"Yes, if you use your eyes properly earlier, Knight of the Sun," he urgently fires back. "Either way, raise your weapons, this will not be an easy one."

Normally, such sarcasm will earn the speaker a fist to the face from Gawain, but he rarely, if ever, sees his fellow knight so nervous and alert against one opponent. Lately, he has been receiving continuous bad experience in judging a person by how he/she looks, so he decides to follow Tristan's instructions for once.

"Smart, smart," Scáthach mockingly claps. "Well, dear Mordred, shall we begin our dance?"

"I told you not to talk to me, geez!" Mordred yells, before disappearing from sight with Prana Burst. Her opponent displays similar burst in speed, leaving Galahad facing three others.

Raising his slender sword, a large cross-shaped shield appears in his off-hand.

* * *

In the background, torches has begun to be lit, and the Roman soldiers running around to their positions.

It's still too far for a volley of arrows to reach them, but once more, standing in the open like them is a dangerous state to be in the battlefield.

Not that they care about that now.

The trio shifts subtly into position. Gawain slides diagonally forward, taking his position as a vanguard, while Cecilia hangs back to his right as the middle guard.

Tristan, meanwhile, has already launched his attack.

The thrum of a harp softly blows across the clearing, swifter than the wind, and Galahad jumps back to soften the blow received by his shield.

"Amazing. I intended to put a clean hole through, yet your shield is not even scratched, boy," Tristan compliments him. "If I may ask, what is it called?"

Galahad shrugs. "Father still hasn't told me yet, so I don't know."

"You'll bite your tongue if you speak during combat!"

Gawain's Galatine slides across the shield, prying it open and launching a body check to its careless wielder. The blow isn't as hard as he would've liked, since the young boy skillfully digs the pommel of his sword into the knight's elbow, numbing it temporarily and nullifying his strength. Galahad bends his body backwards immediately, narrowly avoiding the flying blade thrown by Cecilia which cut his bangs, before rolling to one side as the place he was standing explodes from Tristan's invisible arrow.

Before he can stand up, he raises his shield to knock away Gawain's low kick, aimed at his face, and countered with an upward thrust to the knight's liver from his kneeling position. Possessing an unusual amount of power, Gawain parries the blow with Galatine, activating its weakened abilities and blinds the boy with a flash as bright as the sun.

The flying blade curves midair as Cecilia adjusts its dark strings, coiling itself around Galahad's arm, piercing through it.

"Argh!" He screams in pain, before his sword arm is wrenched upwards with enough strength to dislocate his shoulders. Before he knows it, he's flying through the air, falling in a gentle arc drawn by the blonde girl. Instinctively, he puts his shield in front of his face, and the decision saves his life.

His shield bashes against his nose by the sheer force of the arrow's impact, breaking it, and sends him crashing down a good tens of yards away.

Blinded and disoriented, only the sound of a metal object rolling smoothly near his feet alerts him of the impending explosion.

\- BANG!

Fire and metal shrapnel envelops him, shredding his flesh and searing his skin. It's fortunate his numb left arm still holds his shield in front of him before the explosion occurs, but the damage has been done. Lying sprawled on the ground, he can barely muster the strength to his fingers to grip his sword, much less raise it in defiance.

"What a shield it is," Cecilia mutters, witnessing how the force of her grenade is mostly nullified.

Nodding, Gawain follows, "Yeah. Good call, Tristan. But... isn't he a bit too green for Nimue to send him to fight?"

"A three-on-one is not honorable, yes, but for him, it may be too much."

"I feel bad for bullying him..." Cecilia shifts uncomfortably, a feeling shared by the two men.

Shaking his head, Tristan orders, "In any case, we should bind him to prevent further problems."

Anxious for her master's safety, Cecilia hurries to the spot where Galahad falls. The two knights follow her, also eager to at least stave off the oncoming Roman onslaught since their cover was blown.

\- Static.

In her pocket, she silently takes out a high-strength rope, specialized in binding abnormal people. Merlin developed it, and it's one of the few things she has in her arsenal that isn't Shirou's making. Thin, flexible, and almost transparent, he apparently called it 'plastic' or something like that. Certainly, it's tough and durable, having been field-tested by convicts, but it's the first time it'll be used in actual combat.

\- STATIC. STATIC.

Both men estend their heads to observe this new device. A part of Gawain grumbles at the fact a young, relatively inexperienced girl is the go-to choice for new equipments, rather than his troops, and another part of him is weighing whether he'd let Cecilia be the one to tie the boy up. What if Galahad fights back? What if she got injured?

\- _STATIC! STATIC! STATIC!_

"To be frank, he's too easy an opponent for us, no, Tristan?"

"Well, I wo-"

\- _**AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!**_

A scream- No, a blast of sound explodes from Galahad's whereabouts, before a brilliant multi-colored light burst forth from his body, washing over them with great force.

His pale skin and white-blonde hair remains, but now red engravings begin to wriggle and carve their way around his body in a twisted image of a mother's embrace. A violent surge of magic energy warps the air and creates multiple shockwaves, enough to dent the ground he's lying on severely.

None of his opponents know what is happening, save for one thing.

Narrowing her eyes, Cecilia coldly sends Gawain a a snide.

"You just have to say it, don't you?"

"Sorry."

Hanging his head down, he prepares for phase two.

* * *

"You know... I don't get it."

Hearing Mordred's comment, Scáthach snarkily smiles, relplying, "I thought you don't want me to speak? What's with this ice-breaker?"

"Tsk." Clickling her tongue, Mordred snorts. "Can't you tell it's just a ploy to prevent you from blabbering something stupid in front of them?"

"Oh, pardon me, Your Highness," Scáthach bows, though lacking in sarcasm. "I never thought the cheerful, yet simplistic swordswoman of your reputation actually prefers such method of combat."

"Damn you... Alright, I'll never win in an argument, so shut it!" Mordred snaps back. "What I want to know is why do you chase after me that much? For your information, I'm straight, alright? I'm a committed woman!"

Chuckling at the sight of Mordred hugging herself, Scáthach answers, "Because I'm a lonely woman."

"That's exactly the kind of person I want to avoid!"

Holding a palm up, the black-haired woman cuts, "Can you hear me out for a bit?"

Folding her arms below her modest chest, Mordred huffs.

"Make it quick, then. Injuring Cecilia means it's likely I won't go along with whatever you want, so take note of that."

"I love sensible girls like you," Scáthach quips, much to Mordred's disgust.

Sitting down roughly onto the ground, with only Gáe Bolg acting as a crutch, pointing to the sky. Mordred widens her eyes at the apparent gesture of peace, but chooses to keep her guard up nonetheless, still standing up.

"Like I said, I am lonely," she starts. "Do you know why I survived your attack last time?"

"Healing Magecraft? You seem to be an excellent magus."

Shaking her head, she replies from beneath her swaying dark locks, "I am immortal."

A moment of silence dawns between the two, before Mordred pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Great... Now how can I beat you?"

"You can't," Scáthach bluntly answers. "But that's for another time. You see... I became immortal because I am far too strong."

"Sure, sure..."

Ignoring the sarcastic comments, she continues, "I killed many, far too many even for the World itself to justify it as the act of a single human being. Therefore, I was transformed into this... this _me_ , that simply can't die. Your attack was heavy, but to me, it's no more than a temporary setback, because my wound will be rejected by the World itself.

"So, I spent time watching the world unfold around me. Kingdoms rise and fall, heroes come and goes, and once in a while I get to join in the fun by training some of those fools and see what role they could play... Sadly, none of them lasted long enough to give me a sense of fulfillment."

Her last words can be interpreted as words from a sadist, but Mordred sees sadness in her eyes. Holding herself back from another verbal jab, she instead asks, "So you want to make me into one of those 'fools' of yours, then?"

"Only because you have the talent for it," Scáthach adds quickly. "Although... that's what I said for my last two students..."

"What happened to them?"

Scáthach's back straightens in surprise.

"You... Have you ever heard of the Ulster Cycle?"

"Oh, that history lesson? I slept through it..."

Scratching the back of her head, the blonde swordswoman lets out an awkward laugh.

"Ha... And here I thought I'll be in for a fight of ideals. Killing the tension left and right... You took after your teacher well."

The air instantly pricks the skin, scalding any hairs on Scáthach's arm. Of course, they grow right back in an instant, but the point is made.

"Careful, _magus_."

Wagging her index finger, Scáthach casually points out, "By the way, I'm not really a magus, nor am I a spearwoman, so please get the address right."

" _Who fucking cares?!"_

"Well, if I maim you right here and kidnap you, maybe that Heroic Vessel will show up faster, no? I'm _dying_ for some entertainment for the last few centuries already, so I'll tell you my goal now."

The fiery magic energy is balanced out by a wave of black Od, like flames against water.

"Yes, I wanted to take you in as my... _disciple_ , say. We don't have to make it official, but I won't mind some company every now and then, you know?" Continuing even with Mordred's heated glare, she blabbers on, "Not in that kind of sexual thing, but you're the only worthy woman for me, Mordred Pendragon. Let's both put these weapons down, and come with me. I'll grant you power beyond anything you ever wish for... more than enough for you to fulfill your dreams."

"No."

Running her fingers through her long obsidian hair, Scáthach sighs.

"Why are you so fixated with that Heroic Vessel?" Grunting in a faux exertion of energy, she twirls her crimson spear playfully, saying, "Those of his kind is obsessed with one image, a thing he'll undoubtedly force upon you through your life. Aren't you tired of not having a dream of your own, instead of something others dreamt of?"

"What's wrong with that kind of dream?" Mordred shoots back. "Even if it's not my own, even it's from fake dreams... It's not a wrong thing to chase."

Lifting her head to the sky, Scáthach laughs lightly.

"Indeed... what a default love-struck line. Not that there's anything wrong with that, bar that it's boring. My students were foolishly trapped by that emotion."

Mordred's lips part open, showing a feral grin.

"Of course they would. They're weaker than me."

"Hahaha! What a good answer!" Slapping her well-shaped thigh, she asks, "You sure you don't want to come under my wing?"

"No, thanks," Mordred cheekily replies. "I don't love you more than Shirou, so I won't."

Pleased with that simplistic, almost stupidly blunt answer, Scáthach points Gáe Bolg's tip at the swordswoman's face.

"Such a shame... such a shame... I wanted to see you achieve more than the Kingdom of Britain. You have the talent for it..."

Swinging Clarent around as warm-up, Mordred says, "Talent doesn't mean a thing if you don't put in the work. In any case, you're wrong about one thing."

"What is it?"

"I don't need the throne anymore."

"Oh? Are you one of those idealistic types that are alright 'as long as the people is happy'?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure yet."

Shaking her head, Scáthach warns in a low tone, "It's dangerous to fight me with that half-baked feeling, little girl."

"It's enough for the likes of you."

"How arrogant, even with only one arm."

Mordred instinctively tightens her grip on Clarent's handle.

"What? Do you think I won't notice? This great Scáthach?" Lightly swinging her spear, she cut off a thick branch from a random tree beside her, taking it in her hands.

Thrusting the wood in front, she says, "You'll fall before this branch will."

Tossing the branch as strong as she can vertically into the air, she disappeared from Mordred's view.

* * *

Gasping for breath, Filvis puts even more strength into her jelly-like knees to keep up with Shirou.

He has warned her to tell him whenever she needed to stop, but one look at his expression and her fatigue seemed to fade away every time.

The pace is definitely much slower than he would've liked, evident from the slight gestures of frustration from his body. Ever the gentleman, he never outright expressed it on his face or in his speech, but she could tell. Even his sarcasms and verbal teases have disappeared into nothingness, with only an overly-serious expression in their place.

Well, in the first place, calling it a 'serious' expression is perhaps slightly misleading.

Since his face is now expressionless, cold as a machine.

' _I wonder... what kind of girl warrants such urgency from a man like him?'_

If one asks whether she feels jealous or not, then they're probably right, after she has beaten them up for asking in the first place. For so long, she has fought alone in this world, struggled against her own self and the prejudices of others, resulting in her never taking her mask off. It served as a barrier to her true feelings, those of which has been hurt and traumatized before, preventing others to do the same. Yet, this man, a Heroic Vessel, broke through that barrier with brute force and wormed his existence into her heart.

Does she love him in a romantic manner? Perhaps not.

She spent the latter half of her life shutting herself down from socializing. Even Merlin and Vivian, who're much gentler in their teachings and guidance than she has expected, weren't granted entry into her own personal space. Being magi, the three of them, also with her fellow students and colleagues, respected each other's space... or rather, indifferent to it, as long as they didn't trip each other's research.

To a Heroic Vessel, within her limited understanding, such space is nothing to him who's supposed to win people's hearts with his actions and words, unlike the Counter Guardians who can only destroy. His methods might be crude, bulldozing his way in with sharp attacks to her own personality and physical contact, but it was effective, at least for her.

Internally, she wondered if she's such a difficult woman to get along with if that's what's needed to approach her in the first place.

He's a... friend. The first one she has ever truly had. Therefore, at the very least, she'd repay him for standing up for her amongst her kin.

Wheezing and panting, her Reinforced body strains to its limits, but she has no intention on stopping. Her newly-unlocked old strength, courtesy of Lady Ellis, still can't match his raw physical specifications, much to her frustration. Surely, with her improved magic capacity, as a half-elf, her physical capacity would increase in proportion as well?

Apparently not.

The burden of killing her own kin has locked away much of her potential, enough to fool herself into believing she has hit her peak under Merlin's tutelage. Compared to the old her, when she slayed her brethren to save Cecilia, the Filvis who met Shirou for the first time was certainly stronger, but like most people, it actually halted her growth.

Now, with this newfound resolve, she'll set things right, once and for all.

The magic energy covering her body has dimmed slightly, but in the next moment, it surges back into full strength.

Her light-based magic is poorly suited for physical enhancement, but she tries her hardest nonetheless.

Looking at Shirou's determination, it's impossible for her not to get fired up as well.

With her sudden forced detainment to the elves' territory, she never met this new princess, Mordred Pendragon, nor has she heard of any rumors regarding her. Shirou wouldn't talk much about her, but to be fair, the situation back then required much of his attention, so they never talked about Mordred or himself.

She must be someone special, though, for Shirou to love her that much.

Her drive to run faster comes from another reason, though, since her sister will be there as well, in harm's way alongside Mordred.

According to the redhead, Cecilia can take care of herself well in the battlefield, but if she fought against the inhuman beings Nimue has on her beck and call, a normal human won't stand a chance.

As if echoing Shirou's own thought regarding his personal blonde girl, she too prays for Cecilia to keep her own life.

' _At the very least, please let me get there first...'_

* * *

"Milady, why aren't we getting ready?"

Ellis's tone is gentle, but laced with a terrifying strength under it, enough to make the petite elven leader sweat.

"A-Ah... is it already the time? Ehehe..."

Scratching the back of her head, Cheryl tries to make an excuse, but the pressure from Ellis's smiling face causes her mind to wilt, leaving her speechless.

Sighing, Ellis reaches her hand out and pinches Cheryl's cheeks, stretching them like mochi.

"Fwhat awe hyouu dhoing?!"

"Hmm... I can see the appeal. This is nice..."

"Leht mei goew!"

"Soft... So soft... Fufufu..."

A light chop on Ellis's crown brings her mind back to the current situation, making her blush with embarrassment.

Imina kindly smiles, saying, "You know, revenge isn't that nice when you're taking it out on the wrong person, Ellis."

"Yes," his wife replies, her head hanging down. "I've learned from this mistake... S-So don't look at me... It's embarrassing..."

"What about meeee?! Uuu..." Cheryl moans, her hand rubbing her red cheeks.

"Well, it's kind of you own fault, Cheryl-sama..."

Growling cutely, she sharply rebukes, "It's not my fault we're late! And don't use Japanese! I don't understand it!"

"It kind of is..."

"It's not!"

"I think it is. What about you, Ellis?"

"I think so too as well," Ellis replies politely.

"Double-teaming a child!? How unfair!"

Ignoring the childish leader's whine, Imina turns to his beloved wife, asking, "What's the progress on it? I don't like breaking a promise between men."

Giggling, Ellis replies, "You and your pride... Geez, this is why you died so many times in the past, Imina. Anyway! It's complete, just waiting on Milady's orders. Speaking of which, the reason of our delayed actions eludes me. Maybe Milady can give an explanation?"

"Fine! Fine! You want an explanation?!" Stomping her feet on the ground, breaking the expensive tiles in the process, she loudly says, "It's not the right time yet! That bitch Nimue is still in hiding, but the Heroic Vessel is too preoccupied with his lover that he charges in there like an idiot, even when Nimue's not there. Just like what I'll do!"

Pinching Cheryl's cheeks one more time, Ellis sweetly says, "That's not something you should be proud of, Milady. Do you understand?"

"Hyesh! Hyesh! Ahndershtudt! Ow-ow-ow-ow!"

"Okay, that's enough, Ellis. Or Cheryl-sama's cheeks won't return to their original shape."

"I thold chyu not to shpeak Zhaphanish!"

Releasing the white-haired girl from her grasp, Ellis ponders, "Waiting around here feels suffocating, Imina. Should we really rely on an ambush on Nimue?"

Shaking his head, Imina replies, " _Milady_ is right. We should not occupy ourselves with other people's problems. Shirou can handle it. Exposing ourselves would reveal too much of our intentions, and that slimy woman will escape once more."

"Uuu..." Rubbing her swollen cheeks, Cheryl tearfully claims, "See? I'm right..."

"I'm sorry."

"What an insincere response!"

"Still..." Hugging her elbow with her other arm, Ellis murmurs in a low voice, "I worry for Filvis's safety."

Patting his wife's shoulder, Imina smiles reassuringly.

"Don't worry. She's strong, both in mind and body."

Seeing a verbal opening, Cheryl spitefully comments, "Unlike you, Imina? If I recall, you were a wreck in the past... H-Hey! Keep your hands away from me! Noooo!"

"Go, my dear wife," Imina says while gently shoving Ellis's back. "Demolish that devious cheeks of our leader!"

"Sshhaaavveeeee miieeee!"

* * *

"Guoooo... Aaahhh..."

Watching one of his colleagues, Lancelot, Knight of the Lake, slowly stumble around and moan like a headless zombie hurts Merlin's heart. Being a magus, even that acknowledgement is a huge emotional attachment.

How did this happen?

None of his Clairvoyance results has ever predicted something like this. Yes, Lancelot will eventually betray Camelot, chasing an illegal and forbidden romance with Guinevere. Yes, because of such infidelity, his right to hold the Holy Grail is instead transferred to his son, Galahad, born of his illicit affair with Lady Elaine. Yes, he'd eventually waste away and die someplace of no renown, completely in mockery of his fame during the peak of his life.

However, what is this?

The black smoke-ooze-haze thing coils around the cracks in his pitch black armor, restoring its integrity after being shattered in a million pieces by Merlin's Magecraft. Its rate of healing is quite exceptional, especially since Merlin used a cursed flower storm designed to stymie such defensive properties. His spell's outright power isn't that exceptional, but it specializes in restrain and capture, not destruction. The designer of this armor must be an extremely powerful being, for its magic energy consumption to be so efficient that even the talentless-in-Magecraft Lancelot is able to wield it.

Or is the armor draws additional power from elsewhere? Certainly, if Merlin thinks about it carefully, performance and cost goes hand-in-hand together, so the incredible small trickle of Lancelot's Od couldn't have fully powered the armor's defensive armaments. There's rumors of some magic users who use their nervous system as makeshift Magic Circuits to boost their capacity... so is that what's happening here?

With a jerk, Lancelot's sheared off right arm begins to grow, starting from the white of his bones to the entwining muscle tissues to a newborn skin, all in only a few seconds. Several spurts of blood eject themselves from the growing stump as blood vessels form and ruptures at the same time, and bone-snapping sounds comes out from the reconfiguring of new joints. A gruesome spectacle, but not one Merlin has never seen before.

Lancelot's body twitches obscenely in the process, like a wooden marionette doll being sewn up haphazardly, before clattering and clicking into place. He lets out no sound of pain, merely the same dumb moan he has been mumbling out since the start of their battle.

Well, 'battle' is an overstatement. Their... engagement consists of Lancelot trying to use his apparently superior physical combat prowess to get close, yet Merlin's incantations are far too quick, powerful, and varied for him to get any real chance. Merlin's Magecraft howls across the wooded area, bashing and smashing and blasting its way through Lancelot's remaining defenses.

But, for the umpteenth time, the armor repairs itself and its master's body, ready to battle once more.

The magus's efforts aren't for naught, however. Lancelot is visibly slowing down, from his inhuman agility at the start reduced to a somewhat more manageable pace. If he gets close, Merlin is confident of his inhuman body to take at least a few hits, return a few more, and ready a new spell, so he's completely free of pressure.

Before the repair to the knight's body is complete, the ground beneath him opens up, revealing a set of teeth attached to wooded lips. With his incredible reflexes, Lancelot performs a horizontal split, kicking open the plant mandible to prevent him from falling, but from deep within its throat, a red glow emerges and fires upwards, blazing everything on top of it.

The black armor flies to the sky uncontrolled, and as it reaches the top of its parabole, several large seeds the size of cannonballs appears out of thin air, positioned to surround him, and promptly imploded. The negative pressure tears Lancelot's joints apart, limb from limb, and scatters his remains over the forest.

Merlin inhales deeply, reaching deep within his vast pool of Od and Mana, and slams both palm to the ground.

Instantly, the small forest around him rises up, not to the sky, but up as if a book page is flipped over with the trees on top of the pages. The ground folds and flips over itself, crushing the vegetation and animal life on it, burying Lancelot beneath tons and tons of earth and living remains.

' _Sorry, guys...'_ He apologizes to the sacrificed lives in his heart.

Standing on a tall column of earth, he breathes a sigh of relief at a small sphere of solid rock formed by the compression spell floating in front of him. His surrounding area is completely devastated, with a perfect square crater carved into the ground, as if someone has just taken a giant knife and scooped it up like sponge cake, leaving a small circular platform for him to stand on.

This remaining part is crucial for the concept of the spell, since the physical compression only happens on the outside of the sphere's boundary, while the desired inside part is spatially folded and reduced into infinitesimally small particles, suspending their damage and stretching their perception of time to near infinity. He deliberately leaves a space inside the sphere to act on this virtual compression, or else the spell matrix would get far too complicated to be practically feasible in combat.

The rock is still getting smaller and smaller, slowly reducing into a solid black marble. Merlin casts an anti-gravity spell on its surface to avoid creating a mini black-hole by accident, before extending his robe sleeves and sucking it inside, placing it in a different pocket dimension for safe keeping.

"You really are a fool, Lancelot..."

Without anyone to hear it, his words are lost in the wind.

\- Squelch.

"E-Eh?"

Looking down at the sudden pain in his chest, he sees a thick black sword plunged down in the middle of it, dripping with his own blood.

Before he can see the source of the attack, the blade moves, and his vision swims.

No, it... spins, tumbles, and with several 'thud, thud' rolls on the ground, leaving his eyes to see his headless body collapsing in front of a black armguard sticking out of the small marble, Arondight in its hand.

The marble cracks and shatters, and his vision goes black.


	28. Dance Story

**Hey, guys! Glad you liked the last chapter! Here's some more action to whet your appetite. Now, for the mailbag answers.**

 **neverendingZero: Your question will be answered in due time. I know that I use this answer all the time, but this is the only one I'm comfortable of giving. Hopefully you'll like my interpretation of the Matter of Britain combined with Nasuverse.**

 **Oh, before I forgot, some of the following Noble Phantasms won't be included in the Glossary Update, because it's no different than the ones in Type-MOON's wikia page.** ** **With that said, enjoy! Review, follow, and favorite!****

 **Disclaimer: Hopefully, the Heaven's Feel movie won't be as much of a disappointment as the F/GO anime series...**

* * *

Clarent shines with a crimson light, clashing with another similarly-colored energy. Their difference is merely within their concept and general feel: Clarent symbolizes Mordred's 'Revolution', while Gáe Bolg symbolizes its wielder's curse. The clanging of metal creates shockwaves that'll rupture a normal bystander's eardrums, yet their wielders suffers no setbacks whatsoever simply by moving faster than the shockwaves itself.

Scáthach calmly stands her ground, using minimal footwork to move about and position her body defensively, while her red spear spins and twirls in various circular motions, parrying Mordred's offensive strikes with deadly precision. As the blonde goes low, swinging horizontally at her ankles, Scáthach rotates the spear parallel to her body, swooping the sword with the spear's butt and utilizing the momentum to slice down with the blade at Mordred's back. Mordred uses the parry to shift her momentum upwards, blocking the strike with the sole of her metal boots and launching her head for a headbutt, but she is forced to raise an arm to block an elbow strike aimed at her nose.

The blow is heavy, but the force is once again neutralized by Mordred's use of it to enhance her speed and change direction, this time somersaulting directly in front of the spearwoman for a bicycle kick, but Scáthach simply kicks out Gáe Bolg's end to Mordred's torso, which she knocks down with Clarent. The clash launches her body upward, but this time she chooses to take a few steps back to assess the situation.

"Tired?"

Mordred growls. "You wish."

"Maybe, but what about your arm? Everything all right, dear?"

She can't help but instinctively clenches and unclenches her right fist at the question, leading Scáthach to smile knowingly.

"I don't need it to beat you!"

"Oh, well..."

Mordred lunges forward, but switches direction to one side mid-leap to remove herself from her opponent's line of sight. Scáthach simply emits a sea of flame from around her body, but Mordred's Magic Resistance cancels it out, though it instantly reveals her position. As the demigoddess turns around to her location, Mordred jumps into the air and drives home a heavy downward blow.

It's still impossible for her to utilize Clarent's full strength, but normal physical use is still fine. A blow which would turn an elephant into paste lands squarely on Scáthach's shoulders, missing her skull. Clicking her tongue at the blunder, she lashes out with her knee deep into Scáthach's stomach, but her body refuses to move.

' _What?!'_

Specifically, both her arms which holds her sword, now lodged halfway through Scáthach's body, is clamped down by the black-haired woman's arm so tightly, it's not even budging. Now, face-to-face with her opponent, Mordred can feel the shivers travelling down her spine as Scáthach breathes near her ear.

"Got you."

Letting go of her spear, she places a palm on Mordred's stomach.

\- Thud.

"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Mordred screams, but her body still stays in the same place.

"Fufufu, do you like it? Here's another."

\- Thud.

"N-NOOO! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Blood spurts out profusely from Mordred's mouth as her internal organs are being pounded from the inside, splashing onto Scáthach's perfect, beautiful face. Through her palm, she strikes the petite blonde's body with a wave of magic energy, the only thing that'll get through Mordred's Magic Resistance. Scáthach can damage her physically, but in this locked position, using soft techniques is better because of the lack of wind-up.

As she prepares for another strike, a hand suddenly appears from within her torso, wielding a knife made of mist with a pure, solid white hilt.

The pain is familiar, although still displeasing all the same, as she is forcefully wrenched from her victim towards one side.

Removed of its support, Mordred's body begins to tilt forward, but is suddenly caught by an invisible thing which laid her down gently onto her knees.

"W-Who... Ugh... Argh..."

Mordred tries to speak through the pain and the blood collecting in her mouth, but the feeling of a warm body halts her thoughts.

The air in front of her shimmers, revealing an ornate blue dress and armor worn by a woman identical to her appearance.

"F-Father...?"

"I apologize for being late," Altria says, her eyes hard and cold, before reassuringly smiling, "Leave this to me, now."

"No... I-I must..."

"You have done enough."

Ignoring her daughter's protest, the King stands up while slashing her knife through thin air, removing the blood on it.

A few yards away, Scáthach faces her directly, her body having returned to its original state before her injury, leaving a hole on her black leotard and exposing her bountiful breasts.

A tree branch falls out of the sky, breaking into splinters the moment it hits the ground.

"Oh, dear..."

Altria shudders at the predatory smile Scáthach flashes.

Extending her hand to one side, a bright flash of white light births out a pure white spear. Its design is simple, almost pedestrian, but even from a distance, there's a noticeable notch running down the middle of the blade, down to its shaft, like a channel to let out blood. The blade's length isn't as long as Gáe Bolg's, and its overall constitution is rather flimsy, with its shaft being made out of simple polished wood.

What kind of wood has a naturally white grain, that Altria doesn't know.

"Do you know of this tale, Your Majesty Altria Pendragon? About a king whose corpse is defiled by a plain spear, showing that even his royal body is not infallible?" Twirling the white spear, Scáthach takes a piercing stance. Her right hand is hung low, caressing the spear near its blade, while her left raises the spear's butt up near her earlobes. "As this spear pierces you, I'll show you why it has a moniker of 'Kingslayer'."

"Why do you do this?" Altria asks, her voice calm, but grave. "We have no quarrel with you, Queen of the Land of Shadows. The Picts are no longer under your responsibility."

"Ever the stuck-up rationalist, are you? I am here because I am selfish, Altria Pendragon. Now, move aside, for this spear is not meant for your royal blood."

"I refuse."

Clicking her tongue, Scáthach remarks, "Why are you even doing this, I wonder? Aren't you supposed to be willing to sacrifice your daughter for this country? I am doing this so this country will last."

"That person... No, that Altria Pendragon does not exist anymore."

Scáthach is astounded by the firm answer, which turns to a shake of her head.

"I can't believe this," she says in a low voice, loud enough for Altria and Mordred to hear. "Am I supposed to believe this sudden hate-to-love transformation? What? One night bonding over each other and both of you are loving father and daughter now? Unbelievable..."

Scáthach's words are harsh, but there's a painful bit of truth in it, one which both Pendragons feel in their hearts. Their relationship, despite what Altria claims, is closer to Scáthach's prediction than what's optimal for the good of the Kingdom. However, such a setback never knocks down Mordred for good, and she sluggishly gets onto her feet, against Altria's insistence.

"Well, believe it or not, here we are," Mordred smiles daringly, Clarent's tip focused on her opponent. "Now, since you've kindly told us about your new spear's ability, prepare to die."

"I love your confidence, but since you've turned down my offer, you lost your chance to kill me, little girl," Scáthach replies confidently. Magic energy explodes from her body in an amount far exceeding the two blondes' put together.

"Shame. I was hoping you actually can kill me."

* * *

Nimue, using Vivian's voice, jokingly chides Merlin.

[What a slippery man. How about you just lie down and die, my master?]

Sweating profusely, Merlin glares silently at her.

He stands several yards away from where he stood earlier, when Lancelot broke free from his spell and beheaded him. His headless body crumbled immediately as it lost its head, breaking into splinters of pollen before reconstructing itself, along with his head, some distance away, spells at the ready.

[I wonder... If I destroy your head, can you revive like that again?] The beautiful female apparation floating beside Lancelot's armored head ponders, placing a finger cutely on her chin. [Hey, Lancelot, do it again, will you?]

He gives a low moan as a form of recognition, before nimbly settling into a natural sword-wielding stance.

Merlin clicks his tongue. From his long sleeves, a black, ornate khakkhara extends outwards, longer than he is tall. As the tip glows yellow, Nimue whistles in admiration.

[Careful, Lancelot. I'll break the first salvo, and you go crush his head, okay?]

With no cue, a straight yellow beam explodes from the khakkhara's tip, faster than Lancelot's and Nimue's own reflexes.

Reflexively covering their eyes, they fear for the worst, but Lancelot can only feel a slight pushing sensation upon his armor, not even taking any damage. Nimue, present only as a specter, strangely also feels the same thing, even though it should be impossible for Merlin to touch her in this form...

' _Unless...!'_

"Aaa..."

A grunt escapes from Lancelot's lips as the shadow hovering above him is locked away inside a yellow cube. He immediately reacts, slashing backwards with a crazy twist of his waist, possessing enough power to break Merlin's earlier attempt at imprisoning him. However, Arondight simply passes through the yellow cage, and even successive attacks, performed merely milliseconds after the ones before, couldn't yield any effect.

Realizing what Magecraft it is, he explodes forward into Merlin's bosom, ready to engage at close range.

As Arondight nears the male magus's neck, his hand suddenly twitches.

"Oooooaaaaaahhhhhhh!"

An animalistic scream blasts through Merlin's ears, but it sounds like sweet music to him, having successfully recaptured Lancelot.

[That spell...! Master, have you no mercy?] Nimue jests in Vivian's tone, making Merlin twitch in anger.

He finds that last bit of patience not to react to her taunts, instead focusing on the finer details of his rose thorns burrowing its way into Lancelot's bone and muscles, restricting any movement via countless thorns hooking their way into any crevices. The main vine is merely a hair's breadth wide, sneaking its way under the cover of For Someone's Glory through his visor.

Slowly, the black armor begins to crumble, cracking and floating into the air like ashes born from a flame. It reveals Lancelot with his mouth wide open, locked in a display of extreme agony, enough to cause the white of his eyes to show. His pale skin has numerous black veins running underneath them, a sign to the sadistic binding curse Merlin has put him under.

With a snap of his fingers, the yellow box restraining Nimue's astral form implodes, severing her visual connection.

[Ah... Finished so soon? Well, I'll let you keep that toy, Master. See you soon!]

Vivian's voice reverberates through the battlefield, in the exact same manner he cherishes so much.

Gritting his teeth from sheer anger, he collects himself and begin to encase Lancelot in ice, ready for transport to Camelot.

* * *

"Everyone, take cover!"

Gawain's shout is unneeded, as his comrades has already scrambled behind him.

Galatine shines, illuminating the night sky like a second sun, before swinging down, releasing the white flames it holds within.

As powerful as it looks, it barely flies several yards before a wall of blue light extinguishes it, also breaking in the process.

The resulting blast blows Gawain off his feet, but Tristan jumps into the air and manages to control both their landing, skidding several steps back.

"What the hell..." Cecilia whispers, eyes wide open in shock.

In front of them, where a boy's body used to lie, wounded and incapacitated, now floats the exact same boy, surrounded by a torrent of blue energy whirling around him violently. The ground which was cratered before is now completely devoid of any plant life, flattened and charred by the high-intensity energy coming off Galahad. The wind buffets around his three opponent's hair, prickling their skin and slowing their movements.

The same fair, white-haired innocent face remains, but what was a pair of blue eyes full of energy is replaced by a lifeless sapphire orbs, eyes that look at nothing but _inconvenient_ things in their way. Red tribal marks flows above his skin, expanding throughout his entire body, glowing menacingly even through his clothes.

"Is that... the Holy Grail?" Tristan guesses, much to his comrades' astonishment.

Gawain immediately denies that assumption. "Impossible! We've searched the entire country, high and low, and found no trace of it! And now you're saying it's been nestled inside him all this time?!"

"'The Grail chooses its wielder'. Perhaps that sentence is true," Tristan replies, his stare unflinching. "Either way, even if I am wrong, we should take action, or else we shall perish."

"I agree!" Cecilia shouts over the immense torrent of energy. "If we can't kill him, then knock him out! Sir Gawain, please take point!"

"Roger!"

Like a well-oiled machine, the trio rearranges their formation. The fully-armored Gawain shifts to the front as Cecilia settles in his shadow, covering Tristan who has readied his bow at the back. All three of them feel they're massively underprepared and underequipped for a fight of this caliber, but with the Roman soldiers waking up and getting ready behind them, as well as Mordred and Altria fighting Scáthach, they couldn't just retreat and call for reinforcements.

However, in the blink of an eye, their target disappeared.

Every trace of Galahad's overwhelming disappeared, leaving the previously noisy and chaotic environment dead silent. The sand and grass blown away into the air slowly settles down and allows gravity to take hold once more. The silence rings loud in their ears, the suddenness of it enough for them to listen to the battle raging on far ahead in the forest.

In that split second, as their brains are overwhelmed by the change, the space around Tristan distorted, and a large, cross-shaped shield comes launching out of thin air.

It's a testament to his skill and prowess that he manages to instinctively shifts his weight to one side, enough for that blow to barely graze him. The single shield bash tears through the air so hard it still blows him away, but at least he gets to keep his life intact.

Galahad, who appeared out of thin air, disappeared again with a flash of light.

The exchange is so fast Gawain and Cecilia fail to realize one of their own took a hit.

Hearing Tristan's grunt, the two of them jump back to support him, fortunately avoiding a smash from Galahad's sword as he suddenly appears above them.

"What the hell is that?!"

"Tristan! Are you alright?!"

Coughing, Tristan slowly recomposes himself, saying, "Yes... Cecilia, Gawain, it seems we are in a bit of a pickle..."

The three of them shift their gaze towards Galahad, who simply stands there dumbfounded, as if uncaring of their existence.

Cecilia shivers. "Monster..."

"Indeed," Tristan concurs. "That speed... I shall try and contain it. Cecilia, can you distract him? Gawain, keep her safe."

Having no other plans in mind, they both nod.

Gawain runs like he has never run before.

His armor, if worn by a normal civilian, will feel surprisingly light, compared to a regular knight's equipment. It's the latest cutting edge technology provided by Merlin's experiments, at the cost of his dignity the first time he tried it out, but it served him well throughout the years. Pairing its development with Galatine's powers proved to be exceptionally efficient and effective, and as such he's able to sprint like this for extended periods of time without it slowing him down much.

However, even taking off his armor won't hide his anxiety over his speed.

The woman he loves is putting her life on the line for the Kingdom, for her master, and for _him_ as well. How can he, as a man, fail to exceed her expectations?

It's such a shame that ball was cancelled.

Hopefully, after this is all over, he'll still have a body well enough to dance.

Cecilia's blonde hair spreads open like sunflower under the sun as she circles around Galahad's back, blinded by the strange round sphere she just threw which emitted sound and light larger than thunder. A long piece of thread snakes and dances in the air in accordance of its wielder's minute hand movement, its small, lightweight spherical end wraps its way around the boy's neck.

A moment of elation on her face is quickly erased by a look of alarm, as Galahad simply twists his neck one way to lift her into the air.

"A... Ahh...!"

Gawain hardens his heart. He can't afford to catch Cecilia, lest he lets the chance she creates to close for good. Her choked scream as she soars through the air stabs him in the heart, but he puts more strength in his legs and launches forward, low to the ground. Galatine's bright shine, dulled in power by the moonlight, is hidden by Cecilia's light bomb and sweeps upward, boosted by all his body.

Somehow, even when Galahad's eyes are clearly not looking at him, hurting and temporarily blinded, his ornate shield moves, putting itself between Galatine and the boy's body.

His right arm goes numb by the impact between the sword and the shield.

Gawain feels his palm scald against Galatine's hilt. He grits his teeth, enduring the backlash from the extreme defense, and pours all of his negligible amount of Od into the blade. The flaming sunlight erupts between the two men, but the blue wall from earlier has already started to form, leaving the heat to lick its own caster.

"Hyaahhh!"

Cecilia's sword snuck in between Galahad's collarbone, having repositioned herself by twisting in midair, using his neck as a pivot point. The dull pain is enough to slow the defensive wall's formation, and with a grunt, Galatine pushes through and bashes the plain sword out of the way.

However, the flames still fail to reach his skin, with a torrent of blue energy instantly pushing it away. Unflinching inside the burning heat, Gawain rams his shoulder hard into the boy's torso as Cecilia pivots once more mid-air, kicking Galahad's head with a full roundhouse kick.

Both of them manages to blow the boy away, though Gawain's shoulder pauldrons are cracked and charred, and his face and neck blistering red. Cecilia's shin is torn up badly, clearly injured from the kick earlier. He immediately scoops her from her fall and retreats a few step backwards.

Before Galahad's body can land, several shockwaves surround him.

Up. Down. Left. Right. Front. Back. His entire body is being squashed under constant invisible explosions, crushing his muscles, breaking his bones, suffocating his blood streams.

Or, at least, that's what Tristan hoped would happen.

The prison of hardened air is comprised of constantly pulsing air from a multitude of direction which balance each other. The gaps between the shockwaves Tristan is producing is designed to be as small as possible and as varied as possible, in order to avoid letting the target pinning down a rhythm and breaking free. his boswtring hums in a solemn melody, soothing to his companions, torturing for his captive, but even that isn't enough.

He feels his fingers getting heavier and heavier, the string getting tougher and tougher to pluck, as if he's stretching uncured, dried hide. Soon, his fingertips begin to break and bleed, and with a large explosion of magic energy, Galahad escapes.

The boy is battered, that Tristan has no doubt. But he'll recover within minutes, _that_ he also has no doubt. As he's thinking that, the lacerations and indentations on the young boy's body begin to fill with light and heal at an alarming rate.

Through it all, Galahad's expression doesn't change since the blue energy began to pour out of his body.

He does a light horizontal swing, all speed, no power.

Tristan jumps, his back covering the injured Cecilia and Gawain, and swings his bow with all his might, using all his Od.

\- Splat.

It is no contest.

Tristan's bow and bowstring is specially made to his specification, namely silent and accurate sniping with minimal effort and maximum damage. Temporarily, its ability to produce shockwaves can be converted into a close-range technique, using the curve of the bow as a long scimitar or a curved pole. To withstand such abuse without needing much maintenance, one can only assume what kinds of rare materials and enhanced Magecraft were used to create this weapon.

True to its reputation, the bow holds itself well under the crushing blow, the last-gasp shockwave managing to blunt the effect somewhat.

Its owner doesn't fare as well, though.

Tristan bites his lower lip in order to stifle the pain of having both his forearms broken. It's more of a matter of pride, since his opponent won't care if he screams or groans, and his comrades behind him can clearly see the charred and mangled remains of his arms. With a thud, Tristan loses his balance and falls to his butt.

A strong arm slides underneath his armpit and pulls him clear of the follow-up attack, this time creating a massive trench on the ground Tristan just sat on.

Before he has the chance to mutter a thank-you, a grey cloud bursts open in front of him, magically circling around Galahad and obscuring his vision. From their earlier exchange, it's clear Galahad doesn't actually need to visually confirm his enemies' whereabouts to attack, but as Tristan nearly comments on the uselessness of it, blue lightning erupts within the cloud, creating a miniature thunderstorm which incessantly attacks Galahad without pause.

Throwing an expression full of disbelief and gratitude at Cecilia, he grunts as Gawain forcibly lifts him up to his feet.

Gawain clicks his tongue.

"First his shield... and now his sword?! What else can this brat do? Damn..."

His curse indicates his loss of composure. Normally, he'll take care not to ruin his image in front of Cecilia, but even now, with her dangling on his back and pressing her soft body into him, he can't help it. That's how much he's alarmed of Galahad's strange and eerily fast evolution.

"I concur," Tristan says. "He's like a fast-evolving beast... Like the person we engaged at first was a mere chick, weak and ungrown."

He taps Gawain's arm with his elbow.

"Gawain, switch Cecilia onto me. I have my feet, she has her arms, and you're the healthiest among us three. At the very least, we must exhaust him. The Holy Grail's power is not meant to be constrained inside a human body, thus he must be nearing his limit."

"Even... even at the cost of our own lives?" Cecilia timidly asks.

"If it comes down to it, yes," Tristan nods grimly. "Are you prepared, Cecilia? This is going to be hard."

She grunts as she moves onto the archer's back.

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" She chuckles sarcastically, mostly aimed at herself. "Let's go, then."

Gawain, bitter at the loss of warmth, hurriedly speaks to hide his true feelings, "He's breaking free!"

The Eli's Thunder grenade is indeed powerful, if it was used against a normal human being. Of course, Galahad is an exception.

However...

"...where is he?"

As the cloud of smoke dissipates, it reveals a charred ground, black in multiple places, as well as several destroyed plants and rocks, but no Galahad.

"Back to back!" Gawain barks, immediately followed by his two comrades.

Their eyes scan the horizon as they lean on each other's backs, eliminating any blind spots. They wait for a full minute, but the charcteristic flash of light from Galahad's exceptionally fast attacks never comes.

A sense of foreboding bears down on them.

As if on cue, their eyes meet with one another.

"He's going after Master!"

""He's going after the King!""

They rush over to the area they last saw Mordred and Scáthach landed, but with their battered bodies, it is too late.

* * *

Scáthach steps up two gears.

Mordred and Altria grunt together as their opponent seems to have just split herself from pure speed. Her blood-red and white spears flash under the moonlight, alternating between the two blondes. Clarent and Excalibur both are able to deflect the thrusts and the swings, but only barely.

Scáthach lightly jumps into the air, spinning and slicing fiercely with both spears, striking the swords twice, numbing the King's and the Princess's hands. She switches her attacks, high and low, fast and slow, hard and soft, making the two of them can't press on with their techniques.

Such is the advantage of being immortal. A mortal's life is limited, so they spend their life mastering one thing or none at all, choosing to be a jack-of-all-trades. Scáthach, though, has all the time in the world to sharpen her body and mind, devouring skills after skills by traveling and fighting various foes, either human or inhuman. It's a testament to her talent and experience that she manages to create a counter to Ghostlight Firefly after only two short exchanges, one back in the battlefield against the Saxons, and one from an earlier bout.

Mordred specializes in using her brutal natural strength and speed in her swordsmanship, combining it with her wild instincts and flexibility, leading SHIROU to create that blade technique for her. A normal person like Cecilia won't be able to handle the stress of the technique due to the insane amount of brain processing speed and reflexes needed to use it. Using the opponent's own momentum to speed hers up, she'll continue her ever-faster onslaught until the enemy slips up and receives a fatal blow.

How to counter such technique? Simple: don't put any momentum in one's defense at all.

In Eastern martial arts, it's known as the 'soft-style' or 'internal-style' techniques. Absorbing the enemy's power, redirecting their movement, and finally sealing it and dealing the finishing blow are the crux of such thinking. However, Mordred's own ability is so high she will bypass any attempt to kill her momentum, either by redirecting her own trajectory with Clarent or using Prana Burst.

So Scáthach simply lets Mordred to hit her.

Any injuries will not be fatal. No fatigue will consume her. As the blade sliced open her body, her natural regeneration locked it in place. It's the worst match up against Ghostlight Firefly which relies on wave after wave of attack to overwhelm the enemy.

And the result is clear after their earlier exchange.

If Altria hadn't showed up, Mordred would've succumbed to her injuries after the third strike, before the branch fell to the ground.

Ghostlight Firefly is now unavailable. The injuries to her stomach can't stand the rapid changes in direction. Her right arm begins to ache once more, pushed to its limits, slowly but surely sapping Mordred of her stamina. Had she was in a perfect condition, the combination of her and her father would've even the fight, but as of now, she's a dead weight.

She grits her teeth, fueling herself by anger at herself.

She repeatedly talked off her father, even when Altria approached her sincerely and with good intentions. The King sometimes smiled at her, with an expression missing from her other self's memories. She brashly announced her refusal of her father's way of ruling, then rudely refuted Altria's attempts to induct her as a proper member of the royal family, potentially allowing her to influence the Kingdom, claiming she had better ideas. All of it... was based on her view of her own strength, both as a warrior and as a person, and yet... and yet, she's now holding her father back in combat.

She nearly bites off her tongue in frustration, but against an opponent of Scáthach's class, she has little room for casual internal monologue.

She groans as she parries another heavy, full-body blow from the demigoddess with Prana Burst, her stomach feeling like it almost splits open by itself. But she cannot retreat. Not when considering what's at stake. Not when she has finally decided something for herself in her life. Not when in front of her, her father's gallant back is fighting even fiercer.

Altria seamlessly moves over to cover Mordred, Excalibur shining brightly in the dark of night and parrying Longinus upwards. To avoid Gáe Bolg slicing open her belly, she twists to one side while stepping forward, killing the crimson spear's momentum, and driving her sword's hilt towards Scáthach's cranium. Of course, the spearwoman agilely shifts her grip on her spears, going from a long grip which provides plenty of strength and speed to a middle grip to form circular motions, blocking Altria's advances.

The sword that should've been blocked... disappeared.

No, it isn't Excalibur which is gone from sight. Her opponent's entire body, that is, along with Altria's weapon and armor, the King has turned invisible.

Before Scáthach's instincts can tell which way Altria escapes, Clarent crushes her finger's grip on Longinus with its flat side. Still floating mid-air after her jump, Mordred twists her legs, locking together Scáthach's left arm and neck together in an armlock. Originally, Mordred's innate strength would've allowed her to tear Scáthach's arm clean off, but she can only do this much with her injured state.

Even if Scáthach is held for only under a second, it's still a split second too slow.

Carnwennan expertly slides under Mordred's calf and separates the demigoddess's head in a single, smooth stroke.

Mordred immediately exerts her remaining strength, coupled with Prana Burst, and destroys whatever remains of Scáthach's body in her grasp as Excalibur is planted down the open thorax amidst the geyser of arterial blood. With a blinding flash, the black-clad body is vaporized along with its earlier remains.

"Ugh!" Mordred groans as she hits the ground.

Gently but firmly, Altria moves to support her daughter's back, standing her up.

"Mordred, how long do you think it will buy us time?"

"Maybe... one minute?" Mordred replies, panting and sweating profusely in pain.

Clicking her tongue, Altria narrows her eyes. "We should move. This mission is already compromised. The army will-"

Before she can finish her sentence, Mordred flings her away to the side as the homunculus is swallowed by a torrent of blue energy.

"...!"

Altria can only stare in shock, her arms reaching out to thin air.

Hard-trained reflexes automatically readjusts her posture to land properly on the ground. At situations like these, looking away from the enemy is clearly fatal and stupid, much less not reacting at all as the enemy is preparing a second follow-up attack.

But her eyes is stuck on the charred ground where Mordred was.

\- Kill.

She can't shout. She can't scream. She can't rage around with her sword.

It's as if her body is made out of stone.

\- KILL!

Her blue eyes sharpen, possessing a killing power on their own.

Perhaps... it's the first time she has experienced 'hatred'.

Like a vicious, uncontrolled beast, the emotion consumes her, taking over from a tight leash loosened, ironically, by the bonds she made with her own daughter. It's a fury far more intense than anything measurable or describable, a searing heat and pure pain in her heart which move her body above its breaking point, all in the effort of killing this intruder.

No, killing is too merciful for him or her. They will _beg_ for her to kill them, she'll make sure of that.

If it wasn't for that thought, if her eyes weren't clouded by her thoughts of revenge, Altria might've considered the boy crazily charging at her to be familiar. His lightly tanned skin and white hair are unlike everyone she knows, but a certain part of his features reminds her of someone... _formerly_ close to her.

Instead, she shut off any other consideration and charges even harder forward, destroying the ground beneath her feet by the sheer power of her own Prana Burst.

That is, until a hole appeared in the middle of her bosom, and red thorns wrecks her body.

The pain hasn't registered fully as she falls down, but her eyes widen at the sight of a floating arm throwing a red spear, which is regenerating at an alarming rate.

\- Thud.

As her body falls to the ground and her vision dims, her mouth finally lets out the word she couldn't speak out back then.

"Mor... dred..."

"You're late, brat."

Scáthach exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping. The fight is more intense than she thought, with both Pendragons putting in good blows. It's a surprise that Mordred managed to overcome her weakness so early after she exposed the blonde's shortcomings by switching into a grappling move midway through Ghostlight Firefly. Carnwennan was a far more unpredictable weapon than she thought, even though it's Altria's favored short-range weapon. If only the King was on horseback, then she'd be able to use Rhongomyniad and dominate even more. Scáthach prefers to fight on her feet, so mounted combat isn't her specialty, and the battle would've been even closer.

In the end, if Galahad didn't butt it, her plan to elevate both Pendragons' ability enough to the level needed to kill her for good might've failed.

The person she chides simply stares blankly at the aftermath of his work, completely ignoring the black-haired woman.

Irked, she complains, "Brat, you hear me. Now, you-"

A flash of crimson light rushes through her vision, and once again, she experiences her body being destroyed down to the last molecule.

After several seconds, her body has restructured itself completely, but now both Pendragons are standing proud in front of her, albeit severely weakened and wounded.

She immediately barks, "Galahad! Split them!"

Both blondes react fast, hands and feet already moving, but even before Scáthach completes her command, a blue wall erects itself between the two. Mordred immediately tries to smash the barrier with a kick, and Altria does the same with her shoulder, but a small pulse of energy knocks them backwards. They try to move sideways, but a commanding slam of Galahad's cross-shield to the ground expands and folds the walls into each other, creating two cubes of energy which confine each of the two Pendragons.

With a shout, Altria smashes her sheathe, Avalon, to the ground, where a golden sphere expands and fills the blue cube. Galahad's barrier bulges from the sheer force the phantasmal weapon creates, but it holds firm after he expends some more energy to fortify it.

Meanwhile, in the other cube, muted dull sounds bang and bang and bang across the wooded area, Mordred desperately trying to break open her cage despite her now-mutilated right hand.

Galahad's earlier blow didn't seem to work; the blast wasn't fatal, but at the very least debilitating, but that armor of hers seemed to take the brunt of the blow. Clarent's blast, though, _was_ a desperation move, and overcame her injured right arm.

The boy's machine-like expression softens as the blue glow all over his body grows thinner, but also denser.

Lightly bowing, he shows an apologetic expression.

"I apologize for the rough handling, ladies. Please, stay away from struggling too much."

Slapping the back of his head lightly, Scáthach says, "That courtesy is useless, brat! Now, be a good boy and prevent Miss Mordred over there from hurting herself even further."

He nods, and from inside Mordred's cube, several cross-shaped smaller walls forms out of thin air and presses down on her body, sealing her movements, despite her seemingly raging face and lip movements. Galahad's barrier is perhaps second only to Avalon in its indestructible properties, with an added benefit of extra sound and heat insulation.

Turning her attention to Altria, Scáthach mockingly speaks, "You asked me earlier of my reasons for fighting you this hardly, Your Majesty... and to be honest, the first two answers I thought of would've been a lie."

Both Pendragons cease their futile struggle to listen to the demigoddess's words.

"The death of Galehaut... shook me. He's a good friend, and he perished under the hands of Mordred's master. I wanted to say this is for revenge, but to tell you the truth, his death only meant little to me. Just a blip in my quest, you see. He's serving a good role, so I was sad to see him go. In fact, I was glad I didn't have to repay him for his actions." Tilting her head upwards, she says, "Did you hear that, Cecilia, my child?"

Three blurs descends from the trees, circling Scáthach and Galahad.

With a hateful face, Cecilia darkly says, "I never thought the revered Scáthach would stoop so low to lie."

"And that's why I said you were a 'child'," Scáthach replies, wagging a finger in the air. "When you're an adult, little girl, the end always justifies the means. _Always_. Well, maybe not for your stick-up-her-ass master, but even His Majesty agrees, no?"

Altria simply glares in retaliation.

"And also, seriously!" Scáthach laughs, though not followed by anyone present, including Galahad. "Anyone who even heard of the Bible would've known my description of Longinus to be a lie! Hahaha!"

Tapping the white spear, she explains, "This spear is weak, empowered simply by contact with divine blood. It's true ability is far than the moniker I made up earlier."

Tristan widens his eyes.

"The spear... was meant to fulfill a prophecy...!"

"Good!" Scáthach praises. "With this, I wanted to unearth the hidden, darker side of Her Highness, the Pendragon Princess, because the current her is weak."

"You're crazy," Cecilia mutters. "That's the thought of a suicidal person...!"

"Have you realized it yet? That's exactly what I wished for: for a person strong enough to end my life and erase this curse of mine. Thus, the image of a beast in armor, wielding Clarent, slaughtering her entire kingdom, was burned to my mind." Scáthach looks up at Mordred warmly, "That was my dream."

Sighing, she disappointingly cries out, "Now... it seems I had to do it the old-fashioned way."

Thumbing his sword, Gawain cautiously asks, "Which is?"

She smiles dangerously. "How can a person exceed their own capability? There are several occasions it may've happened: under lethal stress, or absolute rage. The first one didn't work, so I shall resort to the second one."

Lifting her spear, she pools her magic energy.

"'Absolute rage', as in, when someone precious to her is killed in front of her eyes."

She snaps her fingers.

Galahad complies to the signal, and claps his palms together.

And Mordred is crushed.

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **C**

 **Carnwennan  
Rank: C  
Type: Anti-Unit, Support  
Range: 1  
Target: 1**

A divine dagger of mysterious origins capable of making its user invisible. According to legends, its user will 'meld with the shadows', but in reality, the dagger merely casts a hypnotic suggestion that forces anyone in close vicinity to 'remove its user's appearance from their senses'. Due to its background, this hypnosis is impossible to detect or deflect, forcing Altria's opponents to abandon their five senses to even detect her. However, inanimate detection techniques is able to nullify the dagger's ability, as long as there are no organic materials used in the construction of said techniques; for example, an array of metal wire will easily catch the dagger's user, because it cannot make the user intangible.

 **F**

 **For Someone's Glory (Fake)**  
 **Rank: B+**  
 **Type: Support**  
 **Range: 1**  
 **Target: 1**

An artificial Noble Phantasm created by Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, after glimpsing into the future. It takes the form of a jet-black armor which fuses with its wearer's flesh and bones, making movement extremely flexible and form-fitting. It has high defensive capabilities, both physical and magical, but it robs the wearer of his intellect and sanity slowly as a cost. To allow control, the armor lacks preventive measures against mental manipulation. It's created as a set with the tainted Arondight, emitting the same dark energy as its current form.


	29. No-Holds-Barred

**Hey, guys! Since now is the season of IRL, I think this update pace is appropriate; it's slightly slower than my original pace, but I think it's a god compromise. I hope all of you can still enjoy the story while waiting, salivating, for the next story, and be loyal for my next planned series. Look forward to it! Now, some mailbag:**

 **neverendingZero: Shirou's feelings towards Altria is rather muted, similar to how EMIYA felt in the original VN towards Saber after he regained his memories.**

 ** & coronadomontes: Sorry if I've never replied to your comments, mainly because I'm not proficient in Spanish and Italian. Regarding Miguel's question, I've answered it in my above reply to neverendingZero, as well as the A/N in the previous chapters. Btw, are you related to Davide Giuliano, the motorcycle racer? Or is this just a random name you picked up?**

 **Now that's done, enjoy the story! Don't forget to review, follow, and favorite!**

 **Disclaimer: Not just for TYPE-MOON, but also to Paul Verlaine; the poem included in this story is an excerpt of his. I own nothing.**

* * *

"' _Absolute rage', as in, when someone precious to her is killed in front of her eyes."_

When Scáthach said that, Altria knew what she's going to do.

As soon as the demigoddess gave the signal, the King willed every single fiber in her body to try and break free from her confines. It wasn't because she's afraid to die, no. Dying to protect her country is what a true king would do, and she has no plans to tarnish that image she chased after since she was small.

No, it was because Mordred would die if she didn't act.

From within Galahad's unique cubed barrier, sounds only travel one way, which is inside. No matter how loud she screams and yells to warn Mordred, her voice will never reach. Given that her precious daughter was already injured, Altria's efforts would've been for naught anyway if Mordred couldn't act on it.

Which is why Mordred's screams are the first thing which enters her ears.

Mordred lays there, merely yards from her hands, flat to the ground and being pressed even flatter by an invisible force. Her face contorts to showcase the unbearable pain she's enduring, all the more horrific because Altria can't do anything to help her. Not even helping, any encouraging voice won't ever reach Mordred's straining ears due to her own voice drowning any others.

She will lose her daughter right here, in front of her eyes, because she's helpless to aid Mordred.

' _What... What kind of king I am...?'_

The back of her younger self, resolutely and naively pulling out Caliburn from the rock, overlaps with Mordred's body.

Back then, Merlin tested her resolve by warning her of her future: that of a lone, sad end. Still, somehow, she found it in her heart to harden her soul and pull it out, determined to be the Once and Future King who'll lead Britain to its greatest heights. For years, she ruled over the British Isles almost unchallenged; her Knights of the Round Table were far more than capable of defeating any enemy. The only reason she hasn't expanded her territories past the channel between her kingdom and the Roman Empire was solely due to logistics reason. All in all, she was a ruler, unquestioned.

Where did it all start to go wrong?

Was she wrong not to interfere with Guinevere's and Lancelot's amorous relationships? Was it wrong to wish them happiness, giving them something she couldn't give herself? Was it wrong to invite Mordred into the Round Table, even after she blatantly stated she'd start a rebellion if need be? Was it wrong for Altria to follow her own heart once again, right before they set out in this mission?

\- Weak.

It's the only word resounding loudly in her skull.

\- Too weak.

She's not as strong as Mordred, who was willing to challenge conventions and do the right thing, even if it's difficult. She's not as brave as Mordred's student, Cecilia, who faced impossible odds with no chance of winning, yet still holding firm. She's not as daring as Guinevere or Lancelot, who chased after their dreams even as the world was against them.

\- You're weak!

Yes, she is.

Therefore, to set things right, all she has to do is get stronger.

For ages, she has stuffed all overflowing emotions deep down inside her heart, never to see the light again. Every fear she has experienced, every anger she has felt, every hatred she has endured... now, they will all be unleashed to the world.

Her weapon, Rhongomyniad, is waiting for her inside a different dimension: a sheathe created by Merlin to control its wild power usage.

No control. No precision.

Just let it go.

She closes her eyes, summoning every single shred of strength from her body, and mutters apologetically to her beloved spear.

"Break, Rhongomyniad."

The world is covered in white, holy flames.

It's a new sensation of pain for her. Usually, the injuries she suffers in war are mere cuts and bruises, herself far too skilled and well-defended by her Knights to receive a serious injury. Even then, those wounds heal in a matter of seconds thanks to Avalon, and so she's not accustomed to being burnt alive.

In hindsight, she could perhaps cover her with Avalon before Breaking Rhongomyniad, but in the heat of the moment, such simple solution eludes her.

The first thing roasted is her armor. Made of high-grade enchanted steel, it can deflect large projectiles and potent Magecraft independent of her own defenses, so it's quality is undoubted. Yet, facing the destruction of the strongest spear in the British Isles, it's only as strong as a wet rag in front of an avalanche.

The heat branded the armor into her skin, searing them both together. Her flesh chars black at the contact, and her lungs wither under the intense heat. Every strand of hair on her body is burnt to ash, and her eye fluids boil away.

She can't hold down a choked scream, her voice only muted by the fact her throat, too, is burnt. But before Avalon can kick in, and more importantly, before Scáthach and Galahad can react, she activates Carnwennan and disappears among the broken blue shards of magic barrier and white fire.

As she swings the dagger down towards the boy's heart, Avalon begins its gentle recovery, but much to her horror, Galahad instinctively moves out of the way, only letting the royal dagger punch through his shoulder and severing his ball joint. A hard clang reverberating through her palm tells her even that strike is blunted by a reactive summoning of a barrier inside his own body, and by then, she has to roll away to avoid Scáthach's counterattack.

" _Raido."_

A rune appeared mid-air; small, but immediately breaks apart into tiny particles and stops Cecilia, Gawain, and Tristan's charge, halting them on their feet as if petrified by a basilisk.

"You okay, brat?" Scáthach inquires, drawing another rune with a flick of her finger. " _Wunjo, Mannaz_... Hurry up and squash Her Highness already, you're killing the tension."

"NO!" Cecilia screams, struggling futilely to break free of Scáthach's runes, as does Gawain and Tristan.

Galahad spreads his hand, healed by Scáthach's Runecraft, and encases Excalibur mid-swing from Altria's grasp. Her excessive strength causes her body and Prana Burst to destroy the ground beneath her, and even then, she twists her body forcefully to throw out Carnwennan with all her strength towards his eyes, but that, too, is captured.

She uses her hands to break her tumble, and pushes further in, caving in the ground even further to launch her body at Galahad.

' _Just a slight opening... Anything...!'_

She desperately body-checked him with her shoulder pads, but instead of touching him, a hard kick from Scáthach counters her charge, sending her flat to the ground, head ringing. Her body feels as if electrocuted by a lightning spell, unable to put any strength into her limbs to at least stand up.

Sighing and sending her a look parents use to scold their unruly child, Scáthach says, "I hit your pressure points, so be good and stay there as I kill Mordred, alright? After that, let's dance all you want!"

Galahad claps his hand together, putting the final bit of force into his han-

\- Crack.

Altria forces her neck into the air, at the very least, trying to witness her daughter's final moments.

But what she sees is something else.

It's not Mordred's corpse bloodying the interior of Galahad's trap.

It's not Scáthach's satisfied smile, or the boy's stoic gaze.

It's not the despairing faces of her underlings, constrained at the sidelines.

* * *

Red hair.

It's not uncommon in the British Isles, but rare enough to garner some attention if someone possessing it to stroll leisurely in villages and towns.

The man's clothes also aren't remarkable. Compared to Scáthach's own, or Altria's and Mordred's intricate armors, his matches more with Galahad's casual getup, discounting the boy's shield and sword. Long-sleeved shirt and pants made out of coarse fibrous material and cheap leather dons his body, with his feet covered by dark-colored short boots made of similar materials.

Normal.

All in all, if this man was sighted by normal people, they'd only be able to describe him as 'red-haired man', nothing more. That's how unremarkable his appearance is.

Yet, how on earth has Mordred ended up lying between his arms in a princess carry?

Galahad is similarly confused and shocked in the corner of her eye, his barrier in pieces. No, there's a perfect round hole punched through its walls, almost like a meteor has just crashed into it.

The man mutters something in a small voice, though it's clear to everyone listening it's laced with a considerable amount of affection towards the girl in her arms.

"Sorry I'm late."

Coughing lightly, with her mouth full of blood, Mordred smiles warmly, "Apology... ugh... not accepted... guh...!"

He lovingly caresses her head with his hand near her neck, wiping off the blood with his thumb. Slowly, he lowers Mordred in front of the still-recovering Altria, gently putting her onto the ground, saying, "Your Majesty... I'll leave her to you. Please recuperate quickly; her internals are damaged quite badly."

The King dumbly nods, pulling out Avalon and enveloping the both of them with a golden barrier.

The shock of his appearance disturbs Scáthach's concentration enough to lose grip with her three captives, letting them fall to the ground. Cecilia winces lightly, but whispers in amazement at the man, "Grandmaster..."

He turns his head to look at the blonde-haired girl, nodding and smiling, praising her, "You did good, Cecilia."

Taking the opportunity as he talks, Galahad jumps to his back, intent on sneaking in a blow. Scáthach nearly screams to hold him back, but she's too late.

The man's hand blurs, Scáthach's eyes nearly failing to catch his movements, which is so fast it seems doesn't move at all. Galahad's entire body becomes a mere fly to be swatted, and it duly flies several hundred yards away, crashing through trees, rocks, earth, and everything in between like being hit with a gigantic hammer. Judging by how the boy's body bent in the middle before it was hit, rather than a 'hammer', it was more like a 'pole' smashing his stomach in instead.

Then, the redhead turns around, and Scáthach freezes.

"Filvis, can you take care of the Romans?"

' _Who is he talking to?'_ Scáthach thinks, confused.

Her question is answered by the appearance of a slim, black-haired elf, wearing an intricate and frilly one-piece dress with a tiara-like decoration on her forehead. No, she's there from the beginning, right to his side, so how did Scáthach, the strongest martial artist in the land, miss her? Did his 'dynamic entry' take her entire attention away? Or was it due to something else? If this woman decided she wanted a piece of the demigoddess, then she'd have died already.

"Don't order me around, idiot," the elf, Filvis, chides him, though her tone is friendly. "You do your job, and I'll do mine."

She turns around and left, though not before stealing a blatant gaze towards Mordred's student, sitting on the ground. The person in question barely notices the elf's presence, her eyes stuck on her master's prone figure under Avalon's healing.

"And now..." the man mutters.

Scáthach's vision suddenly goes black.

She feels her body suddenly launched backwards by an incredible force from her front, the G-force nearly suffocating her lungs before a split second later, her body is thrown into the ground with such force she can't dissipate it with a proper ukemi, creating a sizeable trench on the ground.

The thing which blocks her vision earlier is a palm of the red-haired man, grabbing her face and dragging her into her current location.

The pain of being thrown around is new for her, or at the very least, the pain of being humiliated by a much faster attack. Her enhanced bones crack at the pressure, but are healed in the next few seconds, which is when a dark shiver runs down her spine.

Her first impression of the Heroic Vessel is 'ordinary'. Apart from his shocking ability to shatter Galahad's barriers and instant one-hit-kill, the redheaded man emitted no more pressure than a normal human. His posture was nothing special, just a simple gesture to cover for his injured lover. His expression was serene, neither showing anger nor hatred at Scáthach for being the cause of everything; he simply showed incredible calmness and focus to react to the situation.

That was then.

Now, it's... _different_.

There's still no rage, no disgust, and no abhorrence. His shining white Pure Eyes are steadily looking at her body, surveying the damage he did with his earlier throw. His muscles are relaxed, to the point of allowing him to make any instantaneous counterattack if she moves even an inch. Even she, a seasoned warrior, is impressed at the level of his natural state; this is the pinnacle of martial arts: no stance needed for any attack.

But the pressure... is indescribably heavy. Those same eyes which analyzes her shoots a gaze someone would throw when they're thinking a piece of garbage is worth their time or not. There is no blood lust, simply because an annoying insect scurrying around deserves none of his. He's not checking her weaknesses or her strengths, but instead is... casually looking _through_ her, as if he's nonchalantly taking a walk and enjoying the view.

In front of his eyes, she's just that insignificant.

Of course, her pride is hurt. Her body nearly trembles and her proverbial top nearly explodes as a byproduct of pure rage emanating from this humiliation. She, the Ulster Cycle's foremost warrior and magus, is compared to a trash on the side of the road? Preposterous! Any mortal or immortal doing the same will instantly 'feel' her 'objections' to that view.

So why can't she move now?

Only at this moment, she realizes it. A simple sentence and statement, but one she'll never admit, not even to herself earlier.

She can't move because she's _scared_.

For the first time in her life, she feels the thing called 'fear'.

She instinctively moves her spear across her face to block an invisible attack.

But her torso is the one cut in half by a giant saw-cleaver, severing her body into two parts.

She recovers in the next instant, taking a small half-step back to a more defensive stance, with the spear laid diagonally across her body, having dismissed Longinus to concentrate on her sole red spear.

But her heart is pierced cleanly by an elegant rapier, all the way to the hilt, before it explodes and shreds her entire upper body.

Twisting her regenerated body, she counterattacks to where she believes SHIROU's position is, rotating her hip muscles to generate an ungodly amount of power. Her spear is clad with its signature red-violet cursed energy, able to cut a wound that won't heal through normal means.

A pair of black and white falchions snake themselves around her attack, beheading her, before multiplying into five pairs and slicing her entire body into tiny, bloody pieces.

This time, she jumps back with all her might, desperate to at least observe his fighting style and the attacks she couldn't block previously.

"How predictable."

The voice is coming from right behind her.

Her body is capable of feats beyond those humans can achieve, even above most Apostle Ancestors. A single full-powered leap from her would've reached at least 50 meters back in a fraction of a second, and it's virtually impossible for her opponent to escape her line of sight, run quickly, and flank her from the back.

But he can.

This time, her internal organs are mauled and chopped and battered from the inside. As she looks down, she sees several large, crooked butcher's knife sticking out from her torso, their features looking hasty and incomplete, but enough to kill her once again.

Eighteen runes appear around her in a concentric circle, blasting out every single Magecraft combination she knows. The forest around her disintegrates in a blinding flash of light, swallowing all around her in an inhuman display of strength.

Or, at least, that's how she envisions her attack will go.

Her runes fizzle into nothingness mid-chant, whereas her head is pierced by a familiar red spear.

The onslaught continues. Without even allowing her time to breathe, the slashes, thrusts, swings, and blasts pulverizes her again and again, letting her experience every form of death she can possibly imagine. She thought she has felt it all, but the pain of getting killed over and over again, plus the additional emotional humiliation it entails her, is getting unbearable.

Then, for the next few seconds, the attacks finally stop, giving her some relief to think and speak.

"Is that... Gáe Dearg?" She asks, lightly panting in concentration.

The Heroic Vessel doesn't reply, merely mumbling incoherently to himself.

At the very least, his inaction allows her to recompose herself.

After the uncountable murder she received, she realized it wasn't he who's much faster than him. All his movements are simple, without any flousrishes or fancy styles, compared to his lover. Fortunately, though, her experience as both a teacher and combatant is not just for show, for she has realized something.

Mordred's swordsmanship relies on her incredible natural talent, speed, and strength to overwhelm the opponent. Her blinding Prana-Burst-clad body blasts around her opponent, pulverizing her targets with lightning speed and ungodly strength. Even if some skilled opponents manage to brush off her first attack, the momentum she gains from the block and parry will be used to accelerate even more, adding more momentum for her next attach.

SHIROU, in comparison, is the complete opposite fighter. Instead of moving his body, he manipulates the opponents to move _into_ his attacks, through many means. Line of sight, slight movement of the muscles, small emission of magic energy, anything; she had so much trouble dealing with his attacks precisely because of that. _Because_ she's so experienced, _because_ her skill in combat is so high, every clue her opponent shows will be jumped at by hard-trained instinct and muscle memory.

So, how did he still manage to disappear from her sight? No, not just from her sight, because she has long past the need to rely solely on her eyes, but from her _conscience_? Her ears, nose, skin, and not even her instinctive aversion to danger warned her of his attacks.

It's a mere feint.

Like she thought earlier, just one tiny, almost imperceptible motion from him lead her to anticipate him one way uncontrollably, simply because she has centuries of experience doing just so. Then, he simply moved in a different direction, and killed her. Again, and again.

A masterpiece in what future historians would call 'ruling the battlefield'. Like a wartime general, a combatant in a duel must focus not only to the opponent in front of them, but also the surroundings and how they can utilize it to their advantage. SHIROU takes it to the extreme, not only using the terrain and his footwork, but also the opponent's psychology against them. It's far more effective the more skilled his enemy is, because a complete newbie can just swing wildly and has a higher chance of evading his strikes compared to someone like Scáthach, who's a slave of her own hellish training and conditioning.

So, how can she escape from this never-ending loop?

She already had a plan in place, although executing it means admitting how much better this man is at combat compared to her. His attacks, aside from being undetectable and unblockable, also come at various unusual angles, ones a normal human being, or any sane fighter, to be honest, will never use. His body is so athletic, his reflexes are so finely tuned to his combat style, and his Magecraft usage is so creative and varied that he can do such illogical manners of attacking. For example, normally, a person breaking through his opponent's guard will try to slide his momentum to a secondary attack without pause, whereas this Heroic Vessel _didn't_ stop his first attack, but instead increased his pace while changing his Projected weapon, which instantly ruined Scáthach's guard and killed her.

Meanwhile, during her internal debate, Shirou is still mumbling to himself.

"Decapitation: 0.24 seconds. Mutilation: 0.31 secods. Pierced heart: 0.19 seconds. Pulverization: 0.40 seconds. Shredding: 0.39 seconds. Cut in half: 0.25 seconds..."

Scáthach shivers as she happens to listen in on his crazy ramblings.

Then, he disappears once again.

\- Clank!

It's the sound she's been waiting to hear all night long.

Finally, after what feels like eternity, his longsword is stopped by her spear.

But... why?

Why is her body cut nonetheless?

After recovering in a split second, she finally has the conscience to ask.

"Heroic Vessel SHIROU... really, why are you going through so much trouble?"

"Hm?" He lifts his head to stare at her, but his cold gaze doesn't waver in the slightest. "Because I want to, of course."

"You're a magic user, a master of Projection Magecraft," Scáthach says, trying to buy time to think. "So what was that just now? Prana Burst? I've never seen one used as a projectile weapon."

"Yeah... don't get your hopes up, Scáthach," he replies, placing one hand on his hip. "I'm not explaining anything until I can take you down for good."

She smiles cunningly. "She must be dear to you, that Mordred girl. It's a shame you interrupted me when I was having a good time with her, no?"

Her bait isn't taken.

At the silence, Scáthach fishes for information, querying, "If you're mad at me, then you're wasting your time. Even I myself can't find a way to kill me, so give up. Your energy, though near immeasurable, is not finite."

Stepping close, she bargains, "Look, I'll retreat for now. Go and spend some time with her during her recovery."

Of course, her suggestion is a lie. Here lies a man most likely to be able to kill her, to finally grant her release from this accursed body. Having shown a second chance, how can she lets him go away? She needs him to expend all his effort, for the Heroic Vessel system is designed so a person like SHIROU, originally a weak, powerless human, can kill any and all beings, without exception.

"Indeed, you're right." Nodding, Shirou coldly speaks, "The World is sustaining you, and I can't afford to bring Gaia into this battle again, after Nimue's schemes."

The look in his eyes sends delight down her spine.

That's it. That's the look. The look of absolute promise, of certain murder...

"So I'll just have to take you someplace where I _can_ kill you."

The world then is bathed in flames.

* * *

Even with the stares stabbing her in the back, Filvis still stands strong facing the incoming onslaught of Roman soldiers.

She can feel the gaze. The pressure of discrimination, of being different, just as she was subjected to in the past. Indeed, humans, despite their constant flirting with the supernatural, rarely encounter an actual inhuman being, despite her features being mostly humanoid. Most creatures from the Reverse Side of the World are far too separated in appearance with humans, which is why they usually take on a fully human disguise. Those like her, though, are constantly being watched, vigilantly at best, and loathed at worst.

Even the King and the comrades she fought with in the battlefield can barely hide their surprise and judging looks. Inwardly, she's disappointed at their conduct, feeling aggrieved for receiving such derogatory attitude after years serving beside them. However, what she is grateful for is the fact Cecilia harbors no such feelings, although her mind is occupied with the well-being of her master.

Somehow, she's irked of the princess being in paid full attention by her sister.

Gawain's mouth is still agape, eyes fixed on her elongated and pointy ears. Tristan, to his credit, keeps his emotions in check much better, but there's no denying the astonishment in his eyes. The King, like Cecilia, focuses more on Mordred's healing process, but is the most reserved of them all, despite him shooting worried looks over Filvis's back every now and then.

If it was the past her from a month ago, then she would've hesitated and cowered behind her usual masked helmet and concealing clothes.

But, as the elder sister, how can she show such a pathetic sight to Cecilia?

She watches on lazily, with half-drooping eyes, at the sight of the struggling Roman soldiers.

Generally, as a unit, the Romans are stronger and more well-organized than the British army. They had little success so far invading this islands because of their drop in stamina after traveling such long, cold distance across the channel, as well as King Arthur's ability and ingenuity. Both kingdoms' actual tactical capability have little in their differences, which is also part of the reason King Arthur has so much difficulty marching inland across the continent, as their situations are reversed.

However, there exist one important differences in the two armies' training.

The Isle of Britain is a cold, damp, and mostly dark place, with hilly terrain and muddy bogs wrinkling the pristine nature. The Roman territory, meanwhile, has mostly flatlands with few mountains in between, and they do have a problem dealing with 'barbarian' tribes which make the mountains their home. Once more, that weakness is being displayed in full right across her eyes.

At night, with minimal lighting and in such short notice, they're struggling to reach where Filvis's group is, even though they outnumber them a hundred to one.

Some of them trip over large tree roots jutting out of the ground in the darkness, ending up trampled by their own unsuspecting comrades. Some have parts of their armor broken and flesh torn by the unforgiving branches and towering boulders scattered in the forest. The torches they brought flicker in and out of existence as they weakly combat the chilling wind and wet air.

Between the gaps of the forest, the beautiful sight of moonlight streaming through the uneven canopy like silver silk curtains is marred by the Romans' yells, screams, and curses.

' _How noisy.'_

She spreads her arms and lifts her face to the sky, wishing to be bathed by the moon's presence.

 _The calm, pale moonlight, whose sad beauty, beaming,  
Sets the birds softly dreaming in the trees,  
And makes the marbled fountains, gushing, streaming —  
Slender jet-fountains — sob their ecstasies._

It is both her voice and not her voice.

Her mouth moves, singing the aria from her childhood, yet the noise reaching her ears is of eldritch language and foreign tongue.

The song feels long, yet is also shorter than a grunt.

It's here. Overflowing into her body, nourishing her mind, healing her heart. The power she once cowardly sealed away due to her own mistakes is now being embrace like a long-lost lover. An ancient power, passed down as a bedtime story from her mother, at a time when her hair was still the silky golden threads her sister possesses on her.

In front of her eyes, the Roman soldiers looks more like disgusting bugs trying to dirty the holy place where Avalon is being cast and her sister is kneeling in.

At that moment, a thought occurs to her.

' _Is this how you feel all the time... Shirou?'_

The moon simmers, and the soldiers' mind are gone.

Uniformly, they fall flat to the ground, uncaring of the muddy and wet soil dirtying their armor and suffocating their own faces. Like a wall of dominoes, not even the captains near the back are spared of her spell's effects. Slowly, surely, the moonlight curtain curls and winds its way among the shadows of the trees, weaving its enchanting beauty through the soldiers' heart and soul.

With an unnatural cracking sound, their bodies snaps up, jerking this way and that like a twisted marionette pulled harshly by their masters. Awkwardly, they turn around, and begin marching back onto the base where they came from.

"Incredible..." Tristan murmurs.

Smirking, Filvis twists her neck slightly to the man sitting tiredly behind her, saying teasingly, "Please don't get too enamored, Sir Tristan, or Lady Iseult will get angry."

Her enhanced senses detects a rise in his body temperature and heart rate, a result worth celebrating over the mostly-stoic man.

Shaking his long, red hair, he admits, "I have little knowledge of Magecraft, Miss Filvis, but yours is as grand as Lord Merlin's. If that is an unwanted comparison, I apologize." He lightly slaps Gawain who's still gobsmacked beside him, knocking his mate out of his stupor.

"It's alright, even though we magic users dislike being compared to one another." Lightly, she walks closer to their position, her job already finished. "For me to be included in the same sentence as one of the strongest magi ever lived, it's my honor."

Noticing something in her words, Tristan inquires, "'Magic user'? if I remember correctly, you've always referred to yourself with the word 'magus', Miss. Why the change now?"

"Let's say it's a legacy of a misspent youth."

Tristan is about to delve further into the subject, mainly as to appease the thick silence going on between Mordred, Altria, and Cecilia as they focuses on Avalon's effect, but a loud sound, similar to an air cannon being launched, interrupts his thoughts.

Filvis merely lets out a weary sigh.

Using every bit of her body's natural springing capability, she turns around and launches a stab into the air, with a sheer speed able to deafen Tristan's ears momentarily with its sonic boom. A small, thin light shoots out from her rapier's tip, hitting the foreign shadow mid-air and changing its course... No, rather, it's _forced_ to change course, as the light continues unabated and explodes among the clouds, clearing the sky to allow the previously-dim moonlight to bathe them in its silver glory.

Still, it manages to crash relatively nearby, kicking up dust and rocks and foliages which distrubs their vision of one particular direction.

None of them has any chance to go and investigate, however, because the thing that landed moves first.

The visual cover it creates from the impact of its landing warps, and a humanoid blur charges through with an unbelievable speed.

Mordred is the first to react, noticing the killing intent even before it charges, but Altria resolutely holds her down, shaking her head.

The Princess's protest is drowned out by the sound of Filvis's immovable rapier against its body slam.

Gawain tries to determine whether what he's seeing is an illusion or not, as the thin sword the half-elf wields, less than three fingers' width, accurately pierces lightly through the humanoid's breastplate and rests on its sternum, halting its charge without even bending or straining.

It doesn't seem to notice the attack, merely categorizing it as a simple obstacle, and quickly blows the blade aside. It grabs the short sword hung on its left waist and slashes out in a reverse grip, but Filvis deftly stabs the inside of its left elbow with the end of her sheath as her rapier curves around and cuts the attacking left arm clean off the shoulder.

Only then does Gawain realize the... _thing_ attacking them, seemingly impervious to Filvis's earlier Magecraft, wears the same uniform Tristan describes belonging to the Excubitors.

From his side, he can hear the redheaded archer mutters, horrified, "Dear God..."

"You fought him before?"

"I _killed_ him before, Gawain," Tristan says, his voice heavy. "Using his corpse like this... bastards..."

Gawain grimaces, since he shares his comrade's aversion to necromancy. To them, the Knights of the Round Table, who honor the code of chivalry, dying in a battlefield against worthy opponents is no shame at all, and the act of resilience before dying itself is considered sacred and admirable. Commander Justin, leader of the Excubitors, fell to the combined might of Tristan and Lamorak, which showed the height of his skill. To see him now, as a monstrous corpse fighting futilely against Filvis, is an insult to his memory and their battle.

That's not saying Justin has his skills diminished by the lack of conscience. Rather, far from it. In a body that couldn't feel pain or exhaustion, a human body's natural limiter can be freely reached and surpassed, granting him speed and strength far beyond what Tristan faced in the past. The speed and angle of his waist's rotation, the extenaion reached by his joints, the impossible field of vision granted by twisting his neck beyond its natural limits... it gives birth into a real fighting monster. The necromancer must be a powerful one, to be able to preserve the corpse's memory, skills, and fighting ability.

Too bad it's facing an even more monstrous opponent.

* * *

"That bitch..." Mordred curses under her breath, earning a frown from her father.

However, instead of chiding her, Altria lightly brushes aside her daughter's sweat-covered bangs lovingly, though her face is still stern. Closing her eyes, she focuses on the sound of her elven subordinate butchering her opponent, saying, "I agree, but you should not focus on that. Calm your heart, and your body will follow."

Clicking her tongue, Mordred shows a displeased expression, but she hurriedly erases it under her student's worried look.

"Cecilia, I'm not going to kick the bucket just yet, alright?" Mordred comments. "Stop staring so intensely like that. Watch the fight, learn something or other... geez..."

Smiling, Altria argues with Mordred's reasoning, saying, "'Tis fine. In all honesty, I would like to take this chance to thank you personally, Cecilia, as we have never directly spoken before."

"E-Eh!? Me?!" Shocked, Cecilia blabbers, "I d-didn't do anything to d-deserve..."

"Nonsense," Altria cuts her off. "I know how difficult it is to be beside Mordred all the time, no matter the circumstances. You are a splendid woman, and as a warrior too."

Even with her current weakened body, Mordred extends his neck to preen at Cecilia's face. With a surprised expression, she says, "Come to think of it, you're not even injured fighting against that crazy barrier boy, right? You've improved so much! I'm proud of you!" Smiling, she weakly pats her student's hand, complimenting her.

Shyly, Cecilia lowers her head while replying, "It's due to Sir Gawain's and Sir Tristan's leadership and judgement. I'm merely a support for them, thus the risk of injury is low."

"You should not belittle yourself too much, young lady. If you are to stay at Mordred's side, you will acquire a peerage yourself. Start to learn how to behave yourself accordingly, Miss Cecilia," Altria claims while giving a small smile, uncaring of Cecilia's slackened and opened jaw. "Do you agree, Mordred?"

"At least make her an duchess!" Her daughter enthusiastically agrees. "Put the wartime relief fund under her, and she'd do great, Father! Good call!"

"U-Uwa..." With her pupils swimming, Cecilia swoons at the sudden weight of responsibility heaped upon her shoulders.

Suddenly, Altria places her palm over Mordred's eyes, preventing her from seeing her father's face.

"Eh? F-Father? What's going on?"

Altria's voice is... weary.

"You have surrounded yourself with truly exceptional people, Mordred," she says softly. "Like what you have just spoken to Cecilia, I, too, am proud of you."

Even though she can't see anything, Mordred chuckles happily, pointing out, "You're speaking as if you're unsatisfied with the Round Table's Knights, Father. Come on, they're the envy of other nations! You, as a king, shouldn't say stuff like that!"

"True, true," Altria replies with a similar cheerful tone. "That said, what you have around you are the relationship I can never have, thus I envied how that man cared for you."

"Ehehehe..." Mordred stupidly smiles. "Yup! We're totally into each other!"

If she could see her father's expression now, she'd question the doubtful look on Altria's face. If it's anyone else, she'd take it as an insult to Shirou's ability, and therefore grew annoyed, but at this moment, she respects her father enough not to.

With a wary tone, Altria inquires, "However... can he defeat that woman? She is a powerful foe, not to mention divine in nature... I grow worried for his victory."

"Don't worry, Father. I have the utmost confi-"

At that precise moment, a chilling voice echoes across the forest.

A magus do indeed have the repertoire to transmit their voice across large distances, but the spell is only limited to a small scope of recipients. For example, a modern invention of a 'telephone' can be replicated almost function-by-function by this spell, which is, as always, particular to the magus using it. Merlin, for example, has the ability to communicate in parallel conversations, mimicking the modern usage of 'teleconference', though it requires his opposing sides to use a sliver of their Od to maintain the line. Therefore, for normal humans like Cecilia, Gawain, and Tristan with no capability to use Od or Mana to achieve unnatural effects by themselves, it's impossible to even hear the words spoken out this way.

...which is exactly the reason they all know this isn't Magecraft.

Legends speak of the whispering voices guiding heroes to victory or astray to catastrophe. Typically, they're clues given by the gods or other inhuman beings who have a stake in the heroes' journey, manipulating them to achieve a certain end. However, those voices possess a strange, almost irresistible charm to it, which goads those who hear it to follow obediently.

...which is exactly the reason they all know this isn't the work of the dwellers from the Reverse Side of the World.

The words number at seven.

A male voice, calm and collected, yet heavy with hope and expectation.

A normal tone, yet it rings deep inside their heart, those with Magic Circuits or not.

It's different. Not words to convey a person's thoughts, or those to engage others in conversation. It's not a compilation of carefully-selected letters to hypnotize oneself to process Magecraft, nor is it an inhuman gibberish associated with True Magic.

In reality, they realize it is a simple sentence.

An oath. Nothing more than that.

It's a promise of the speaker to himself. It's a pledge to those he loves most, which is why the voice sounds especially sweet inside Mordred's head. It's a vow to the World and humanity as a whole, of his way of life and his ideals.

After listening to those words, Mordred grins, saying triumphantly, "See? He won't lose."

Those words are as follows.

" **I am the bone of my swords."**

Thus, the world is bathed in flames.


	30. Resting on One's Laurels

**Hey, guys! What a good month for motorsport fans! Being one myself, I called it 'Champions' Weekends'. Who's your favorite motorsport heroes? Discuss in the comments! Congratulations to:  
1\. Joan Mir for the sealing the lightweight motorcycle world championship (Moto3);  
2\. Franco Morbidelli for sealing the middleweight motorcycle world championship (Moto2);  
3\. Jonathan Rea for sealing the world superbike championship (WBSK);  
4\. Lucas Mahias for sealing the world supersport championship (WSS);  
5\. Lewis Hamilton for sealing the Formula 1 World Drivers' Championship;  
6\. Porsche Motorsport for sealing the World Endurance Championship (WEC)**

 **Now that the fanboyism is over, let's check out the mailbag, shall we?**

 **: No, Altria won't transform into her adult self (this isn't Nanoha, LOL), because she still possess Avalon's regenerative powers. Regarding Shirou's Muramasa's self, I am planning to use it in future projects. Look forward to it!**

 **YuukiAsuna-chan: He didn't use Harpe because I always assume Scáthach's Divinity and curse could overwhelm its effects. He's using it in this chapter, but only a subdued passing mention. But because there's very little information regarding the comparison of ranks between the two, your suggestion is also valid. I'll keep that in mind for the future. Thanks!**

 **Now, read and enjoy the story! Don't forget to review, favorite, and follow!**

 **Disclaimer: Do people really need this pointed out to them every single chapter? Well, I blame Fanfiction for this. Remember, I don't own anything except my own ideas.**

* * *

A hushed crowd gathers around a large screen in a darkened room. The tension is palpable in the air, not only because the audience actually cares about the result, but also due to the sheer amount of entertainment the moving images on the screen provides them. However, if one looks closely, the people watching the video feed aren't even remotely close to humans, making a terrifying (at least in appearance) group.

It's a rare, history-making worthy moment. The creatures dwelling in the Reverse Side of the World rarely socialize with even their own kin, not to mention other races. Originally, they are already antisocial in nature, before the advancement of humans cornered them and led to the creation of an alternate dimension. The past gods who controls the majority of them had perished, their names left as 'legends' and being twisted and adapted into various forms, further weakening the remaining ones. Not having much to do, they live in peace, only branching out of their routine for the occasional entertainment of 'playing' with humans.

In this occasion, because so much is at stake, they had gathered for a feast and a meeting, which ended abruptly when the two main actors left the congregation and rushed to the battlefield.

" **Ha... I may be late, but can I just say-"**

"Don't you dare!" Cheryl hushes sharply, her gaze threatening.

" **I told you so~!"**

"GAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"

\- Shhhhhh!

The crowd react poorly to Cheryl's loud voice, glaring at her to be quiet and let them enjoy the show.

"I-I mean... a Reality Marble is just cheating!" She whines, her tiny fists balled up tightly. "He didn't use any of his Magecraft when we fought, so it's misleading! Fake information! I'm not gonna pay!"

" **Shall I rally the crowd?"** Nyneve smiles cunningly. **"You do know they hate those who shifts their responsibility when they lose, no?"**

A small, pale palm tries to cover Nyneve's lustrous lips, but a black haze is the only thing Cheryl can find as the Lady of the Lake phases back into existence a small distance from her.

"You should enjoy the show a bit more compared to fighting raucously, Cheryl," a mature female voice reprimands her, sending chills down the petite elf's nape. "I tried my hardest to provide you with this live action, yet you're disregarding it... How disrespectful," Sumiko warns with a smile, though her eyes are scarily frowning in discontent.

Cheryl hops back into her seat as fast as she can, her back completely straight like a model student.

"S-See? I'm watching it properly, right?"

Despite her nervous tone, her opposing member decides to let her off, and sits down nearby, much to the girl's horror.

To distract herself, she chooses to actually pay attention on what's being screened, for once. Sumiko's brand of Shinto-based Magecraft has allowed those who attend the meeting between the dwellers of the Reverse Side of the World to watch the going-ons in another worlds. It's a convenient scrying device, though Cheryl might've underestimated the scarily motherly ex-Japanese woman's power...

...because there's no way a normal Magecraft can bypass a Reality Marble's World-altering ability.

Well, all it does is allow them to observe, nothing more. If it's the Outside of the World, most of those who attend can send an attack through the virtual window, but the Heroic Vessel's power is too great to allow that. Beside, both SHIROU and Scáthach are too good to be caught out by that kind of surprise attack.

' _But... I hate to admit it, but his soul looks beautiful.'_

Like gravestones, melee weapons of every kind is stabbed down onto the lush, swaying grass. Their majesty lends an air of more than just memorials: they're manifestations of the fusion of the owners' and the weapons' soul. Phantom figures stand tall, holding their various beloved weapons' hilt under their overlapping palm like mighty guardians to the power they hold within, their image flickering in and out mischievously.

In the middle of the screen, a bloodied and battered Scáthach lies kneeling and chained down to the last inch of her body, various cursed weapons making their home in her body. Despite the grievous injury, as always, that immortal woman is still alive, and still have quite a fighting spirit, judging by the smile she manages to squeeze out at the Heroic Vessel's face.

The bloody scene contrasts heavily with the peaceful environment surrounding them. The sky is a haphazard mix of color, ranging from a dawn's indigo-violet, a morning's blinding yellow-green, a noon's blistering white-on-blue, a dusk's vermillion-orange, and midnight's silver-on-black; ever-shifting, all-enveloping. A small breeze can be seen blowing across the blade-covered plains, though whether it's a comforting, cooling breeze or a mucky, humid gust is anyone's guess.

However...

"Haa... Haa... S-See? I'm... immortal, you foolish Heroic V-Vessel... You're wasting your time..."

Indeed, precisely as Scáthach boasts about, even with her connection to the World cut off as an effect of SHIROU's Reality Marble, her wounds are slowly closing up, constricting the blades stabbing into her with newborn muscles and skin. It's slow, far slower than she's used to, but despite her most fervent wish, her body is still recovering. Her words are brave and arrogant, but also full of a simple lie which fools no one.

Because Scáthach's most fervent wish is for her own death.

The redheaded man smiles, but his eyes are colder than the Land of Shadows she rules over. Inwardly, she trembles in expectation of what he would do, but his next move defies her best imagination.

Gently stroking her cheek with his metal-cold hands, he speaks gently, "When did I say I was trying to kill you?"

Her heart drops to the bottom of her stomach.

"What you said to Mordred and Altria was correct," he surmises. "The 'old-fashioned' way is better, which is to indulge myself in absolute rage." Momentarily closing his eyes, his grip on her cheek begins to intensify, his fingers clawing around her jaw bone. "I'm ashamed of myself for not even capable of being angry on her behalf, no matter how much I want it. This heart... this dull heart of mine is a pain in the ass, geez..."

His gaze hardens.

"But let's assume I _can_ get angry, Scáthach," he says, "why do you think I'd fulfill your wish?"

"N-No!" Scáthach protests. "I nearly killed your lover, toyed with her! Toyed, I say! What a cruel man you are if you don't act to exact her revenge! You coward!"

Sneering, Shirou shifts his hand to grasp her entire lower jaw, forcing her to look at him.

"That's exactly what I'm doing, bitch."

A loud groan only capable of being produced by a large mechanical entity escapes from behind Shirou's back. Because of her kneeling position, her view is blocked by his entire body, but her keen instincts alarm her by way of an insect-crawling sensation on her skin.

Roughly tossing her face to one side, Shirou steps aside and walks away, leaving his victim to the 'care' of one of the residents of his world.

Scáthach has to strain her neck upwards to catch the newcomer's face, as he stands nearly three meters tall. The groan she heard earlier is actually deep-sounding creaks caused by the movements of the full-body armor the... _thing_ is wearing against each of its elements. As she widens her eyes in terror, the being jaunts gracefully in a manner belying his appearance, with flames coming out of the gaps of his skin charring parts of his own armor.

The dropping feeling she felt in her stomach isn't fear, as it turns out.

It's a form of primordial, raw terror; a revolt of her own soul looking at this being. At a glance, she understands what it represents: the everlasting destructive cycle of humanity's rise and fall, a symbol of the human race's feeble struggles against the World. Its existence is the amalgamation of humanity's efforts to control their own fate, by way of exploiting inhuman beings.

Beings like _her_.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the burnt-metal-covered arm unsheathes a strange, flaming coiled sword, and pierces her right in the middle.

Scáthach is used to pain. Through her life, many trials and tribulations were thrown at her, each and every one enough to kill a normal human being many times over. Against humans, against inhumans, for humans, for inhumans, she's done it all, granting her this immortal body and the power to rule the Land of Shadows. Ever since that moment when she realized she couldn't die, she grew to care less and less for her own physical well-being. Hey, if nothing can kill her, not even herself, why should she care?

But this is different.

How is it? How can she describe it, this sensation? The most painful, the most horrific, the most agonizing? Not with superlatives, surely, as it's a new feeling for her. So how can she accurately tell the pain of her _soul_ being burnt to cinders?

The thing that burns her isn't the flames wreathing around the coiled sword.

An untold number of souls pours into her, all cursing and damning her own. They rush in through a number of mental barriers she subconsciously put up, drowns her insides, and starts to devour it. Each and every one of them souls holds enough potential to reach the Throne of Heroes on their own, but sadly, their lives were snuffed out before they're able to do so. Their regrets, their despair, their anger, their hatred, their burning desire, all piled into her small soul vessel and bites and bashes and busts and burns and crush and grind...

She's going crazy.

A small part of her mind which remains tells her so. A tiny part, almost as insignificant as a firefly's light on the middle of a cold, dark lake, but it's still there, not submerged beneath the icy, unforgiving waters of the flaming curses. Barely struggling to fly above the surface, with black liquid splashing upwards, trying to drag it down alongside its brethren, but it remains strong. The part of her which represents the younger her, of the proud, talented young woman with grand desires, still exists.

 _...allowed_ to exist.

Before long, her mind fades into nothingness.

* * *

"Fuck!"

Inside his own silent Workshop, Merlin curses to nothing in particular like a sailor. He has experience in maritime affairs during his travels, and thus well-used to coarse language. Right now, he's emptying his vocabulary like no tomorrow.

' _How can I be this careless?!'_

He had Lancelot in his grasp. The traitorous knight, the key piece of the downfall of Britain he witnessed using his Clairvoyance, has just slipped away from his grasp. How can he be so stupid, so ignorant?!

He's forgotten to change his security locks around his Workshop, even after knowing Nimue has access to Vivian's knowledge.

It was over in the snap of a finger, just like that.

After their battle, Lancelot was already secured, encased in enhanced ice which not only restrained any physical movements, but also mentally forcing anything put in it into a deep, cryogenic-enhanced sleep. It was hard to make the ice immune to magical hacking from afar, but it was possible, and thus the only way to break Lancelot free from his entrapment was to physically destroy it with brute force.

With Merlin always by its side, who could do so without him noticing? It's impossible.

 _But stealing the entire icy prison wasn't impossible._

And that's what exactly Nimue did, sneaking through the barriers of his Workshop and spatially scurried away with her prize.

Right now, he can only pray his punishment will only entail the lost of a few limbs.

' _Well, not if I didn't tell anyone of our encounter...'_

Silently, he makes his own preparations to cover his own tracks and atone for his mistake.

* * *

[Curses...]

Nimue, making a sullen expression, clicks her tongue as she hides her emotion from the observing Guinevere and Lancelot. They're showing an unsurprising amount of interest on the screen, as it shows the progress of her three pawns against the contingent from Camelot... or at least, Lancelot is. The Queen is, as always, pouring her full attention towards her beloved, though Nimue suspects that woman is the sole person who has an inkling of what she's feeling right now.

It seems the time she assumed her sister to be wasting is not a complete waste, after all...

At first, she thought it's typical of her sister who prefers to move behind the scenes more than herself, entrusting Nyneve's hopes to potential hero candidates through words and persuasion, not direct intervention like what Nimue has done. As passing directly through the boundary between the Reverse Side of the World and the Outside consumes quite a considerable amount of energy, one may say it's a more efficient way to move about, but Nimue bypasses this requirements by possessing strong vessels to directly interact with the dealings in the Outside.

Of course, a being as powerful as her requires a quality of vessel suitable for her. In this era, when the worth of each individual is still quite high and undiffused, it's quite simple to choose. Brusen and Vivian are such examples, being powerful court mages in their prime, and their genders match as well. Nimue can possess a male vessel, but that's just not to her liking. She prefers to bind men under her service like Lancelot and Justin through Magecraft and other means, because their egos are easier to manipulate from the outside.

Nyneve's maneuvering and marshalling the collective agreement of the dwellers of the Reverse Side of the World has blindsided her, however.

 _[How good is her social skills to be able to bang those mule-headed beings together?!]_ Nimue shouts inwardly. Granted, her surprise is well-founded, as the beings in the Reverse Side of the World are usually old, which means they hold plenty of power, which also means they all have a high level of pride and individualism.

But the Heroic Vessel is the real problem.

It's a simple miscalculation and misinterpretation of Alaya's decision to activate the Heroic Vessel program and binning her Counter Guardians. Alaya, as the representative of humanity's desires to live, draws its power from the collective consciousness of humanity. Their wishes, their dreams, their desires when they're alive and after they passed, whether they achieve them or not, fuels her and the Counter Guardians in turn.

But the Heroic Vessel... isn't.

What drives them to be a Heroic Vessel? They're just humans, similar to the original Counter Guardians before they accepted Alaya's offer, with a wish to fulfil that's beyond their power to do so. However, their construction is different, which leads to Nimue's mistake.

Heroic Vessels are empowered by the people they save.

It's clear when she analyzes SHIROU's Reality Marble. The swords standing there aren't imitations or originals he thought up. They're not a product of simple Magecraft or some cheat-like ability to use the First True Magic.

They're memories. Wishes. Hopes. Trusts. Accumulated through his travels, from the people around him whom he bonded with, and those that he acquired earnestly with effort. They're not just some cheap replica created from his Pure Eyes' analysis, though that undoubtedly helped, but the genuine article, filled and blessed with the soul of their original owners. And because of that, every single swing he makes using his weapons is that much heavier.

So heavy, in fact, that Scáthach was unable to cope with them.

Nimue has expected SHIROU would blow his top if she put Mordred in danger. Well, not just him, but Altria Pendragon, Cecilia Alcott, Gawain, and Tristan too. There's no better way to gain information of her foes' full power than when they're blinded by anger and desires for revenge.

But her sister intervenes in the nick of time. With a random elf in tow, SHIROU breaks up the fight before Mordred can be killed, and Nimue lost her chance of seeing his Reality Marble and his Knight Arms together, or something else more powerful he got in his sleep.

 _[Damn her...]_

Well, it's not like she didn't completely expect this. As the embodiment of chaos, she'll always clash against Nyneve, who embodies order. Throughout the ages, they have been called many things by humans from a number of eras and cultures, but their roles remain. Constantly trying to one-up each other, they employed various stratagems, some more successful than the other. It's times like these when her sister does something outrageous, something Nimue assumed to be impossible, that irks her.

 _[But... you are not the only one who are capable of crowd-rallying, dear sister!]_

Alright, her plans may have taken a hit. She thought SHIROU's wounding of the World through the use of his Knight Arms was enough to warrant hostility from the dwellers in the Reverse Side of the World. Yet, her sister managed to negotiate their way out of it, by way of implicating Nimue herself, and playing on the fact those people _hated_ being manipulated. Information warfare sometimes necessitates the _release_ of information as well as hiding it, and Nyneve played her move at the right time.

However, because of the short period of time, Nyneve didn't manage to persuade all of them.

And that's where Nimue will strike.

She secretly conjures a smaller screen near her torso in a way that her body covers its existence from the two watching behind. Rather than showing a live feed outside the Heroic Vessel's Reality Marble, it displays a darkened room, filled with row after row of lightly glowing cylindrical tanks standing vertically. The contents were transferred from Vivian's Workshop into this place, where Nimue used her powers to... _improve_ on her host's projects. Sadly, as befitting of a human, Vivian's understanding of the concept she's trying out was considerably flawed compared to Nimue's knowledge, and the Lady of the Lake has to spend a lot of time rectifying it.

If only these beings inside the tanks were completed beforehand, then Mordred's group would've been annihilated for sure.

Oh, well. This setback isn't the end of the world. Time and fate is still moving to complete its destined scene, and it favors her. Nyneve and SHIROU are trying their hardest to avoid the collapse of the Kingdom of Britain, and despite their efforts, this vicvotry is a mere temporary setback.

It won't take much. A riot here, a misplaced army there, and the crack between Mordred and Altria will grow again, perhaps to a point even larger than their original feud. All Nimue has to do is wait, and strike when the time is right, much like her sister.

Ah, it feels good to hold the future in one's fingertips, no?

* * *

Their meeting, had it occurred after a sports game, might resemble a pair of racquet players celebrating their doubles championship. Of course, racquet games won't be invented until the next few centuries, so the analogy is moot.

Barely sweating, Filvis smirks at her male partner.

"Oh, dear... you look knackered," she snickers. "Having a tough time?"

"No, I just got back from the sauna."

Shirou's reply knocks the conversation of course, as the elf tilts her head to one side.

"Eh? 'Shouna'? What's that?"

"Never mind," Shirou offhandedly replies, his attention taken by his lover lying weakly on the ground.

Mordred smiles sweetly at him, though the glisten on her brow shows the ordeal she went through. Weakly, she extends a hand to him while laying on her father's lap, which incurs a small jealous glare from Altria which she quickly hides behind a professional demeanor. Of course, as a Heroic Vessel, Shirou is trained not to ignore that slight twitch of emotion, but he declines to make a fuss about it. It's normal, right?

"Excuse me, Your Majesty," Shirou politely says, lightly bowing his head to Altria, before kneeling down and gingerly taking Mordred's hand.

Even though her eyelids are drooping all the time due to her exhaustion, Mordred still snarks, "If you're going to apologize, I'll get angry, yeah?"

The redhead returns her smile, then places the back of her fingers to his lips, eliciting a giggle from Mordred. However, after a few seconds, he shows no desire to let go of her hand, and even overlaps it with both of his own.

"S-Shirou?"

"I'm not apologizing," he insists, closing his eyes and avoiding eye contact. "I'm just... grateful, for everyone here. Very, very grateful." He squeezes her hand gently, emphasizing the emotion he's expressing.

His voice trembles lightly at the end of his sentence, which makes Mordred speechless. To her, Shirou _never_ loses control of his emotions, even under great incentive (such as when they're making love), so this display tickles something from the bottom of her heart.

Slowly, she speaks, "Ah... I'm... happy? Yeah, really, I'm happy for your answer..."

Both of them end the scene awkwardly, neither willing to speak any further.

"I'd hate to ruin this moment, but I think we all needed some rest, no?" Filvis interjects before things get too romantic for her taste, tapping Shirou's shoulder to snap him out of his reverie. "Besides, I don't see any supplies being carried here, which means we have to find an inn soon."

"I concur," Altria nods, lifting Mordred's back to a sitting position. Her daughter takes the opportunity to snuggle to her lover's chest, completely forgetting Altria's existence already. "Unfortunately, it seems the horses we brought were lost in the commotion. How would you propose we move, Miss Filvis?"

The elf nervously coughs, having never been addressed directly by her king.

"Ah... erm," she stutters, "After a while, I can create a teleportation ritual to bring us directly back to Camelot, but I need to gather back my magic energy first, Your Majesty."

Nodding in approval, Altria says, "Good. Prepare immediately. Gawain, Tristan, both of you should rest as well-"

"Forgive my rudeness, but I suggest one us of should stand guard," Tristan cuts her off, kneeling in a perfectly knightly fashion. "Miss Filvis's effort has been amazing in driving the Romans away, but we can't neglect any further retaliation by deserters and other dangers."

Rubbing her elbows, Cecilia adds, "Um... we're in the middle of the forest at night too... I don't think it's a good idea to stay here."

"No, it's fine," Shirou says. Taking out several steel balls with one hand since his other is preoccupied with Mordred, he explains, "We can use these. Filvis should take guard as we're on the move."

"These are...?" Gawain asks, moving closer to get a better look, before Cecilia pulls his arm back.

The balls are thrown to the ground, quite near Gawain's feet, who understandably jumps into the air as a pair of horses disassemble themselves from their original form.

"Trotting clocks..." Cecilia mutters accidentally.

Helping Mordred to stand, Shirou comments, "That's a good name. Let's call them that, then."

"Shorten it to 'Trocks'?" Mordred jokes somewhat seriously.

"You love acronyms, don't you?" Shirou teases, nuzzling Mordred's head with his chin, eliciting a struggle from her.

"Ha..." Filvis exhales tiredly. Nimbly, she leaps onto one of the horses' back. Immediately, green glowing lines start to flow along its metal skin, before bonding with the elf's magic energy and neighing energetically.

"I think this one likes me!" She exclaims, chuckling.

Smiling, Shirou asks, "What, you're going to ride three-up? Make a carriage, at the very least. We got injured people here."

"Spoilsport," Filvis huffs, before quickly jumping off and squares off her stance, hands and feet spread. Regulating her magic energy, she closes both eyes before opening one of them, glaring at Shirou. "Shouldn't you pitch in as well?"

He waves his arm, and multiple Azoth daggers shoots out of thin air into the ground in a complicated triangular formation. The elf weaves her magic energy delicately through the ritual daggers, before an elaborate coach made of wood and vines rises from the ground. Shaped in a half-box with an open top, the wooden wheels are somewhat wider and firmer than the flimsy ones used by peddlers, with strange black sap-like substance covering its outer rims. Four short beams jut out of one end, with thin strands made of conjoined roots latch on to the horses' flanks, creating a makeshift carriage.

"Sir Gawain, Sir Tristan, would you be so kind to hold rein?" Filvis suggests. "I shall stand guard at the back, so please relax, enjoy and focus on the road."

Tired, wounded, and simply astonished by the foreign style of Magecraft on display, the two men quickly set about their assigned duties. Shirou extends his arm beneath Mordred's knees, and with an excited yelp from her, leaped onto the back without making a sound or a jiggle from his landing. Cecilia and Altria decide to take a more conservative approach, though not before politely arguing who should come aboard first. Cecilia insists the King has the right as royalty, while Altria's sense of chivalry demands a weaker girl to embark first. Before their argument can be settled, white particles of light gather around their feet and levitates them onto the carriage, courtesy of Filvis, even though she struggles somewhat to affect the elder Pendragon due to her innate Magic Resistance.

Before long, they cruise down the road they came from. Much to the Camelot court regulars, the coach ride is far from the usual bouncy affair. Instead, the road imperfections, if there's a road at all, is completely smothered by the undercarriage setup, one Shirou explains as 'suspension'. The horses, despite their menacing appearance, gallops consistently and tidily, avoiding any sudden lurches that disturbs the passengers' comfort.

Lulled by the light yaw and roll, Mordred soon falls asleep in Shirou's arms, her armor disassembled and her hair untied. Because her underclothes are merely a short and revealing one-piece red dress which leaves little to imagination, he Traced a wide and thick blanket to cover both of them.

He inwardly clicks his tongue at his disability to feel jealous of other men's stares. The sleeping Mordred looks positively adorable, her innocent and beautiful appearance enough to tempt any men who eye her. He, as her lover, _should_ be protective of her the same way Altria shoots him a wary glance. He _should_ be angry at those men who, on purpose or not, lust at her with their filthy eyes. He _should_ be holding Mordred tighter to his chest as a show of possessiveness.

As of now, he only did the latter of those three, but only to warm her frail-looking body.

As always, she stirs and flips and murmurs cutely in her sleep, sometimes burying her face into his chest, sometimes leaning her head into the nook of his neck, but always showering his heart with her overflowing emotions. This is why he adores her so much; his unemotional part always takes part whenever she's not around, and since he can only fake the emotions around him, her outgoing personality and intense heart warms him inside, even though he can never give her the sincereness and wholeheartedness she deserves.

That's why... he'll make her as happy as possible.

He moves his right hand to the back of her neck and presses his face into the crown of her head, the scent of her sweat and dirt wafting into him, but he could care less as his left hugs her tighter. He ignores Altria's glare, choosing to indulge himself in Mordred's warmth, using her as a prized body pillow and resting his mind.

He just wanted to settle things with the people from the Reverse Side of the World. For the 'greater good', he has prevented a massive invasion, or retaliation of any kind, from them, with the pretext of helping Filvis and with Nyneve's assistance, even though his benefactor didn't show herself in front of them. He left for, what, a few months?

And those few months were already enough to nearly kill Mordred.

This always happens. Every time he decides to do something, either saving a large number of people or moving in accordance to that goal, his weakness will always take damage. This time, it's Mordred. What will it be next? Can he afford to do that? Is he even willing to risk it? Should he live like a hermit: focusing to defend and protect a select number of historically-important people at the expense of the general mass? After all, humans have faced many extinction-level events in the past; surely, they can survive without his meddling?

Or is it the other way around? To ensure the population's survival, an appropriate amount of sacrifices is necessary? Should he left Mordred and her group to their fate as he went for Nimue's metaphorical jugular, and end this once and for all? It's the efficient way, the smart way.

If only he isn't this selfish.

He's greedy. He wants it all: those he loves, and those he loves saving. Not choosing between two options, but instead taking the third or fourth or fifth option that ensures everyone's salvation. People may damn him for not taking the easy option of prioritizing the many or choosing the few, but he knows himself the best: he's simply just that much of an idiot.

' _Maybe I'll consult Alaya for my next move...'_

* * *

Looking at the couple snuggling into each other, Gawain makes a bitter smile, mostly in retrospect to his own unrecruited love. The woman in question is sitting behind him, at a distance he can reach just by straightening his hand, but she feels so far away. His melancholic thoughts continue, before his partner beside him lightly slaps his knee to make him refocus on the road. It's a good thing the archer is taking the reins, or he might've run them off the track by now.

"I know they got along very well, and I am happy for them," Tristan says in a low voice, careful not to be heard by anyone in the carriage. "But staring like that jealously won't help your matters, Brother."

Embarrassed at being caught looking, Gawain growls somewhat aggressively. "I'm not jealous! Why should I be? You have Lady Iseult, the two at the back is enjoying each other, and His Majesty has the Queen, even though it didn't work out," he snaps sarcastically, continuing, "So why would I be jealous? I'm not jealous at all. Na na na na..."

Sighing, Tristan stays silent, ignoring his friend's antics. It's becoming a sensitive topic for the blonde-haired swordsman lately, ever since Cecilia politely refused his advances many times. He's not sure it's a direct rejection or not, or whether the young girl is simply oblivious to Gawain's attraction to her, but it's certainly not going well for the Sun Knight. Normally, Gawain keeps his thought to himself, but after the previous battle, his mental guard is lowered, which maybe explains why he responds so aggressively to Tristan's advice.

Lulled by the horses' gallop, the redhead begins to contemplate the meaning of the battle earlier. They were hoping to sabotage the Roman's encampment and drive them away, dealing a harsh blow to their invasions due to a lack of properly-established supply lines yet. The camp they planned to make a first base to slingshot their operations deeper within British soil would've been razed to the ground, and the Camelot group would disappear into the night.

Judging from the two assailants' position, they've been waiting for his and his comrades' arrival. How did they know? Who leaked the information? This mission was supposed to be a clandestine, sudden strike decided in very few hours by Altria and Mordred Pendragon, but Scáthach and Galahad knew enough of the operation to ambush them right in the middle of the plains.

' _If it wasn't for Mister Shirou and Miss Filvis's intervention...'_ he shudders at what might've happened.

Now that he thinks about it, how on earth did they survive for so long until the pair arrived to save the day? Galahad was manageable, at least for the first half of the fight. They're undereqquiped and underprepared, prioritizing speed and the element of surprise to catch the Romans unaware, which was why they struggled against Galahad after he powered up with his strange powers. Cecilia's performance was commendable, given her relative inexperience and lack of powerful weapons, to be able to keep up with Galahad and integrate herself to Tristan's and Gawain's cooperation.

At one point, as they chased Galahad who went after Scáthach and the two Pendragons' fight, he feared he'd lose the king and princess he respected so much. Then, the fright was replaced by awe and jealousy as Shirou and Filvis absolutely decimated their opposition...

' _Wait... Shit!'_

 **Where is Galahad now?**

He was blasted into kingdom come by Shirou's offhand counterattack, so none of them know precisely where exactly he landed, apart from perhaps Shirou. A boy that powerful... this is dangerous!

"Everyone...!" He turns around sharply, about to warn them in a loud voice, but a finger in front of Filvis's lips silences him. He tries to open his mouth again to protest, but a sharp glare from her deters his decision, even though he outranks her on the battlefield. Even her desperate cluing in on the two romantically-intimate couple to not be disturbed, he still tries to warn them anyway. A moment's sleep won't be so peaceful and loving if they're under attack, right?

Thankfully, his fears are unfounded.

They pass through the night silently, though Tristan can never get rid of the cold sweat building in his palms.

* * *

Sitting at the back, staring at the ever-distancing horizon while being bounced around, albeit only slightly, by the condition of the road starts to make Filvis slightly carriage-sick. However, the knot she feels building in her stomach is caused by something else.

Originally, Cecilia, like His Majesty Arthur Pendragon, decided to watch over her beloved master, although without the clear irritation the King was showing to the man holding his daughter far closer than what was acceptable at the time. However, a combination of pushing to the limits of her body fighting Galahad, a person of supernatural powers, with her ordinary human body, and worrying about the safety of her comrades and her master took the toll on her. Leaning at the back of the carriage, her golden head slowly drifted to sleep, toucing Filvis's back in such a manner they're now touching each other's backs.

The girl in question is probably oblivious to this, but her body heat feels like it's searing Filvis's back.

' _Too close too close too close too close too close too close!'_

After glaring so harshly at her superior just now, her cool head which allowed her to make that decision is now blown away by her burning emotions. She never knows she has a nervous tic, so why is it her leg is twitching up and down like someone under interrogation? Why can't she be calm at the moment she wants it the most, whether it's dealing with Shirou's sarcastic remarks or her half-sister's distance to her?

Granted, Cecilia never shows any sign of recognizing her, which is good. That's Filvis's intention when she left her at the doorstep of the Alcott House, hoping innocently and irresponsibly at that time she'd be treated well. What if it went the other way around? What if she decided to left her only blood relative in the world to a place where she'd be treated like a slave and died, never reaching adulthood? If she never met Shirou and be reminded of her error, she might never know of Cecilia's fate, having decided to run away from it all those years ago.

It's nerve-wracking, even more than when she believed she'd be executed and merely counting her remaining days.

" _You'd really think I'd execute you? No way! I'd work you to death! That's my style! ... Atone for the rest of your life, and take good care of your sister until the end of time. That's your punishment."_

Remembering Lady Cheryl's words, she sighs, slightly alleviating her concerns.

Is it really alright, all of this? A happy, peaceful life, an understanding and forgiving sister being given to her after the sins she committed? The dwellers from the Reverse Side of the World takes same-race murder as a far more serious matter than humans, because of their far inferior numbers and the Conceptual Weight each of them carried. Killing any of them, no matter whether it's premeditated or done in the heat of the moment, deserves a punishment far more severe than, say, a wife killing her husband due to his adultery.

Even though Shirou and Lady Ellis has already convinced her to ease off the guilt-tripping, she finds herself going back to her old self constantly, now that Cecilia's so close.

Filvis wants to embrace her. She wants to caress that golden hair the same way Shirou did to Mordred. She wants to apologize for everything she did in the past, even if Cecilia didn't remember any of it. She wants to talk to her, ask her of her preferences, her favorite food, hobby, whether she already found a man or not...

Yes, she simply wants to reconcile with her, but why can't she take the first step?

' _Argh... I'm going around in circles...'_

If only she can see herself, then her lustrous black hair would've had a smoke chimney puffing out steam right now.

Her fingers now begin to arrange and rearrange the traditional elven wardrobe she's given to wear, since her leg has stopped twitching. Her all-white clothes with blue linings are impeccable, since she destroyed Justinus without even stepping one foot away from her original position, but to her nervous mind, it's becoming more and more disheveled. The short cape has a normal, thin coat underneath, which in turn conceals a simple white dress, but since it's more on the short side, the more she played with it, the more risk she has of flashing anyone watching with her underwear. It's a good thing her white stockings reach all the way up to her hips and quite opaque, or else she'd be in quite a compromising position.

Well, that's if anyone can keep up with the carriage's speed.

With her stomach still feeling queasy, she rides off into the night, her back fully resting on her sister's sleeping figure.

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

#

████  
 **Rank: EX**  
 **Type: Anti-World, Anti-Unit**  
 **Range: ?**  
 **Max. Targets: ?**

 **A Knight Arm from a failed Heroic Vessel. This Vessel came from a forlorn and dark world, dying out of its livelihood of embers. In this world trapped in a downwards spiral of a cycle, they are the representative of humanity, birthed to prevent the world's destruction and relit the dying flame. Alas, a cycle must come to an end eventually, and the doomed dimension moved on into an age of deep sea.**


	31. Post-Battle Healing

**Hey there, everyone! Sorry for the long wait! To be honest, it's the usual excuse: real life work, not enough time, etc... which are all true. Once again, I apologize, and not just for the tardiness of this latest chapter. I somehow managed to left out a Glossary Update regarding the newest Weapon Spirit in SHIROU's UBW, which I had fixed. So, please check out the end of the previous chapter as well!**

 **Now, mailbag time!**

 **MalumAmina: Yes, I realize the slow pacing of this arc. Once again, I ask you to be patient since I'm trying some other things with my writing, and maybe my attempt at characterization made the previous chapters rather slow-moving. I recognize the 'treadmill' description of yours, and hopefully this next part will be better. Thank you for the support and the time you took to give this advice, though. Thanks!**

 **FxExAxR: In fact, I won't comment on your review, because I do need a beta sometimes. Will you be mine? Send me a PM if you agree. Hopefully you still can enjoy the following chapters.**

 **Also, can anyone recommend me a site to watch the new Heaven's Feel movie online (for free, of course)? I can't seem to find it anywhere. Download links are fine, though an actual anime site will be better. For those of you who've watched it, is it any good? Is there any twists from the original story in the VN? How's the animation and the music? Please send me your replies!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything you may recognize as others', including other FFn authors.**

* * *

\- Fffsssssshhhhhhhhhh...

White steam gently floats around the elegant bathroom, enveloping Mordred's sore body like a silk gown. She carefully scrubs her body, not wanting to leave any place dirty in front of her lover. Of course, Shirou won't mind, but as a woman, this level of grooming is the minimum for her.

Unfortunately, they're not going to do the things she desired.

The hot water massages her tired muscles, even after they're healed properly by Avalon. Her right arm twitches in a dull pain as she reaches to wipe her back, giving her a wince, but it's so minor it's not even worth thinking about. She runs her hands across her torso, above the place where Scáthach hit her with an internal palm technique. Back then, it felt as if her organs were being crushed into a pulp, but no trace of that blow remained.

It was a strange experience. Her armor, Crimson Rose, wasn't invulnerable, sure, but how on earth a mere palm technique punched through it so easily? If it did reduce Scáthach attack by half, then how strong must the unguarded blow be? She shivers just thinking about that.

A rough, wide palm suddenly caressed her back, eliciting a moan from her lips.

She leans her back onto the man's chest, smiling as he lands a kiss on top of her forehead.

Shirou says, "Here, let me wash your hair."

"Mn."

His fingers are similarly callused, the ten digits firm and tough, capable of piercing tree trunks without Reinforcement. But now, she enjoys the feather-light sensation from his hands, gently running over the pressure points on her skull to relieve her stress.

"It's rare that you enjoy baths this long," he quips. "I remembered when you only took less than 2 minutes washing up..."

"T-That's way in the past!" Mordred protests quietly, blushing. "Whether I like it or not, I'm a p-princess now... At least grooming this much is allowed..."

"Hahaha," Shirou lets out a small laugh. "I'm not criticizing you, dear. But we're pressed for time, so let's finish this up, alright?"

He runs his fingers through her shoulder-length hair, careful not to entangle them and pull her scalp, and squeezes lightly, letting the rudimentary shampoo to soak and clean her blonde hair. At this age, such perfumery is a luxury reserved for the highest of nobles and royalty, so there's a steady supply of it in this castle.

A few minutes later, they dry each other's naked body with towels, with Shirou having to remind her of their urgent task when she starts getting too frisky.

What greets them when they exit the bath is Mordred's room, barren from any furniture in the middle. The unnecessarily girly (according to Mordred) bed, canopy, and shelves are set aside to the walls, leaving the center of the room empty.

A complicated array of several magic circles is etched onto the floor. They are arranged like moons circling around a planet, with the cetral magic circle around twice the size of its accompanying ones. The circles at the circumference partly intersects with the main circle, with various runes and foreign letters Mordred doesn't recognize filling them to the brim. Uncountable geometric shapes, both symmetrical and asymmetrical, decorate the array, making her feel dizzy.

They both step into the middle of the array, still unclothed.

He put his palms on her shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

"This will hurt," he says.

She smirks in reply. "You know I can take a shot."

"It doesn't mean I have to like it, or allow it to happen," he answers, his voice strained.

Standing behind her, a sweet aroma comes off her still-damp hair into Shirou's nostrils. A normal man would've lost his reasons in this situation, with the Royal Princess standing defenseless, her most private places being let out for all to see. Indeed, it's like his head is getting lightly drunk, perhaps being overwhelmed by the emotions coming out of Mordred. His blank heart is straining to receive and process the love she gives out, through her body, through her eyes, through her smiles.

Suddenly, the noises stop as he focuses back.

He pumps his Od into the magic arrays, activating their effects.

To him, skills other than swordsmanship come hard. His connection to his own origin, 'Sword', is even stronger than EMIYA's, making other skills harder to learn. And now, he's attempting to use a technique so far apart from his skillset, it's a wonder he's not letting someone else do it in his stead.

Spiritual surgery used to be Kirei Kotomine's strong point, honed during his feud with the Emiya family, against both Kiritsugu and the original Shirou. A man with his skills is hard to find, even in this era, where Magecraft is still flourishing and hasn't lost most of its strength. In theory, Shirou knows enough of the technique to equal the priest, but putting it in practice is a different matter.

The fact he neglected to put any effort to find a proper spiritual surgeon is not lost on him. Perhaps it's possessiveness, or even jealousy, but the thought of letting someone else touch Mordred this way annoys him, so he's doing it himself.

"G-Guh!" Mordred groans, gritting her teeth.

Across her pure white skin, glowing red lines emerges, pulsing in anger like volcanic magma. Her knees tremble in pain as her whole body feels like it gets peeled with a hot knife. It's a necessary step in order to allow Shirou to access her Magic Cores. His Pure Eyes are capable of the analysis and ovservation, but it's still his fingers that have to do the job.

"Argh!" She yelps as his finger traces one particularly thick line, running across her right arm.

He silently observes the lines' reaction, steeling his heart to ignore her pained voice. Since she's standing with her back to her, the complicated tribal pattern on her back presents itself to his Pure Eyes. Sprouting from the center of her torso like cursed red roots, it spans her entire back, with the lines on her upper back going to her arms forming a shape similar to a dragon's wings. The ones running up her neck ends in front of her face, framing it like the gaping jaw of a dragon, while similar theme continues down her body, to the spot above her cute asshole forming a circular bundle, as if trying to form a serpentine tail.

Normally, he'd ogle her naked body, because that's what she expects and enjoys, but he's now fully concentrated on the job at hand.

The moment she swung Clarent during her first battle with Scáthach, her Magic Cores went awry. Because it's technically a spiritual 'wound', Avalon and Merlin's Magecraft had little effect on correcting the flaw, because it wasn't damaged. To put it into perspective, a normal magus's Magic Circuits are simple dynamoes connected by wooden spokes, while her Magic Cores are ultra-high performance race engines connected by super-strong, but also super-stiff carbon fiber shafts. As a result, a small mistake in handling her own power output was enough to put the flow of Od in her body into misalignment, which he's correcting now.

Truth be told, if he possessed an affinity for Spiritual Surgery, he could've done this painlessly. Currently, he has to be supported by this magic formula spread across the floor just to access her Magic Cores and its lines, causing pain to his lover. What complicates things further is due to Morgan le Fay's schemes, all of Mordred's body was designed to be a superior clone to Altria, and as such, more difficult to work on due to the different specification of their Magic Cores.

\- Drip. Drip.

Several droplets splash onto the stone floor. He can't divert his attention now, as he splices the troublesome crimson lines into one another to correct and improve them, but it could be both his sweat or Mordred's blood dripping from her bitten lips as she stifles her voice.

' _Calm. Focus. Don't rush. Don't rush. Don't rush. Careful now...'_

How can things get this wrong? Did he teach her the wrong way? Or was she forcing herself to break through her limitations, when she clearly hasn't maximized her potential due to anger? Or was it Scáthach's skill?

Either way, it is taking far longer than he liked.

Shirou, a man who, despite his lack of pride in himself, is confident in his fingers' and Magecraft's ability to realize his imaginations, find himself trembling. Is it nervousness? Fatigue? Frustration?

He forcibly clears his mind of any doubts, and begins the finishing touches.

Mordred's way of using Prana Burst was in no way different than Altria's, at least when comparing the flow of Od in their bodies as the technique was used. However, Clarent wasn't a sword which could be unleashed fully with one arm, and Mordred's lingering injury was due to her forcing the requisite amount of magic energy through one arm to activate Clarent's finishing blow.

Twice the power through half the required channel? It's a miracle she didn't simply blow her right arm to pieces with that stunt.

At long last, for what seems to be an eternity for Mordred, Shirou's voice whispers to her ear of the operation's success.

"It's done."

All the strength that keeps her standing up through that painful process disappears into thin air.

Shirou gingerly catches Mordred's collapsed body, wrapping her in his arms. The red markings on her skin slowly fade, leaving behind the pristine skin she inherits from her father, though covered in a massive amount of sweat.

He only realizes it now, but he, too, is sweating like crazy from the exertion.

Gently, he carries her in his arms, a befitting posture for the princess she is, and goes back to the bathroom to clean them up. Still delirious from the pain, she can only manages a satisfied smile as she curls her body closer to him, purring all the way.

They have a meeting to catch, after all.

* * *

To Gareth, the sound of steel slashing through the air is a familiar one. Despite being a woman, she favors swordsmanship over embroidery, horse riding over tea brewing, much to her father's consternation. Luckily, both her brothers supported her wish, and thus she is now apprenticed to the Knights of the Round Table, eager to stand on the same ground as her elder brothers.

What _is_ unfamiliar to her, though, is the act of watching someone else swing their sword.

With bright golden hair dancing in the wind, the young but voluptuous body executes her techniques flawlessly. Her body control is excellent, perhaps on par with some of the relatively inexperienced Knights of the Round Table, and Gareth can relate. When a swordsman or swordswoman gets in the zone, it feels like the world slows down around them, allowing their mind to flow perfectly from one form to the next, to be executed by the body.

Cecilia's swordsmanship is rigid, similar to His Majesty's, but beautiful things are still beautiful.

' _No wonder Brother is captivated by her.'_

Seeing the hardworking girl, slightly younger than Gareth is, trains this earnestly after such a hard mission flares a competitive spirit within her.

After all, it's her duty as the younger sister to monitor her brother's relationships, no?

That said, chatting up a warrior while she is training is bad manners, so Gareth decides to wait a while.

Rather, as she is observing Cecilia's sweat rolling down her face and dampening her clothes, she wonders whether the blonde-haired girl actually notices her existence or not. That's how serious the younger girl looks. A good look.

This person has just came back from a life-or-death match with the enemy, yet she is here, training. Her resoluteness to improve is commendable, but that's only half of what Gareth seeks to know from her.

Scáthach. Galahad. Nimue. Guinevere... _Lancelot_.

It's highly likely Cecilia knows some information regarding them. Having been stood out by the King and stuck here, guarding the castle, during the expedition Cecilia participated in, Gareth is eager to hear any first-hand accounts of what actually happens, not the diluted stuff written down in reports. Did she see Lancelot? Did she fight him, or even wound him? Did anyone do so? Was he dead?

Such questions pack her mind, giving her a lot of stress.

' _Maybe... I can talk her into recommending me for the next expedition?'_

To be honest, her jealousy is starting to get out of hand. She, Lancelot's student, who's been training for the last _decade_ for a seat at the Round Table, was stationed in Camelot, doing boring guard duties, while Cecilia, who she heard has only been practising swordsmanship for little more than a year, got to go out and engage Gareth's former master's now-evil group. It just wasn't fair.

However, seeing this honest and diligent girl training so single-mindedly without caring of her own body and other people's judgement, Gareth feels ashamed at her immature thoughts.

Just as she thought of that, the area around her is already filled with countless white... sprites? Butterflies? It's hard to judge because of their luminosity, but also due to their beauty.

An elegant figure appears next to Gareth, surprising her with her stealth.

' _This woman...'_

She's never seen this black-haired woman before, and definitely not one with a pair of long, pointy ears like those elves in bedtime stories have. Wearing clothes in a style also unfamiliar to the young knight apprentice, the elf leans on the railing while also observing the blonde-haired girl, seemingly uncaring of Gareth's probing eyes.

Finally, after a few seconds, she musters enough courage to ask, "Miss? Who are you?"

"Filvis," the woman answers shortly.

The gaze she's using to look at Cecilia scares Gareth. Those eyes... possess something she doesn't recognize, but the sheer intensity of it can even burn countries down.

' _I-Is it love? A forbidden love between the same sex? Hawawawa...'_

Unaware of Gareth's dangerous line of thought, Filvis continues to monitor Cecilia's training in silence.

* * *

Contrasting their earlier mood, the environment in Camelot now is positively optimistic. It's a shade from becoming joyous, because there's still one task needing to be done, but it's a welcome improvement from the sombre tone in the previous months.

Huddled together inside Altria's far-too-small-for-a-king's study, a map is laid out wide on the table. Various totems are used to mark the armies' deployment as well as places of interest, allowing those present to gain an easier understanding of the bigger picture.

"Is it a success, Merlin?" Altria asks.

Nodding, he moves the totems telekinetically, showing the chronological movements of the armies, both Roman and Briton. Agravain, the black-haired secretary, is furiously noting down the conversation as well as the description of the tactics used. On the table, the totem symbolizing the temporary Roman encampment deep inside their own southeastern territory is smoking, showing its destruction at the hand of Filvis, while two small but colorful totems made of precious gems floats to the edge of the table, placed like defeated pawns in chess.

With a wave of his arms, a string of tokens attached by a piece of leather wiggles back down south, pass the English Strait, and onto the Roman capital. There's not only one, but three strings which have been occupying Britain's southern shore, subtituting for the Roman's powerful naval army, but they all have been pushed back.

"Now that their advance camp is destroyed, the rumour we've been propagating has shaken them to the core, allowing Kay, Lamorak, and Bedivere to push three fronts simultaneously against three unorganized and rioting army." Tracing the vertical width of the strait, Merlin continues, "It's good that we managed to push them back this quickly. I would've liked to place some countermeasures against the forming of a naval supply line, but we get some leeway because of their retreat. It's an option I want to implement in the future, though, so note that down in my personal agenda, Agravain."

Without looking at the magus, the man in question simply replies, "I'm not your personal secretary, but a secretary to the court. Get it done yourself."

"Oi, oi, my beautiful secretary, who's much more desirable than you, got stolen. Why can't you do me a favor?"

"Because you never repay one."

\- Clap!

Their argument is killed off prematurely by the irritated Kay, who takes over Merlin's report.

Grumpily taking a thin stick, he pushes over the totems on the table, explaining the current situation.

"Those money-hungry amateurs can only fight when everything's well and dandy. They dressed like soldiers, but acted like childish mercenaries in reality. No big deal. End of report," he hurriedly finishes. "That elf girl's done the most job, so knight her or something, Arthur."

Chuckling, she signals to her secretary to note it down. "Well, if she wishes to. Sometimes, I suspect Merlin's stubbornness is often passed down to his students."

"Pfft!"

The muffled laughter comes from a young female, physically looking slightly older than Altria, but with a shade of blonde hair more similar to her brother, Gawain. Her braided hair bounces on top of her shoulder as she stifles her giddiness, earning a glare from Kay.

Cowering, she meekly apologizes, "S-Sorry, Sir Kay..."

"Hey, be nice, Kay," warns Lamorak, his large frame straining the space available. "Seriously, why can't you be nice to girls, at the very least? No wonder you're not popular..."

Clicking his tongue, Kay sharply retorts, "Popularity means jack shit if you can't perform. And as far as I know, women are satisfied in the way I 'performed', so shut up."

"Yes, yes, thank you for the admission, Kay!" Altria exclaims, keen to get things back on track. "Lamorak, Bedivere, what of your end?"

The effeminate head of the royal guards, who have been silent until now, curtly answers, "There is no problem. However, I regret I am unable to take Anastasius's head to present it to you due to his cowardly tactics. He escaped unharmed, no doubt eager for revenge next time."

"'Tis a fine job, Bedivere. There is no need for regret," Altria praises her close aide with a pat on the shoulder. Shifting her attention to the bulky man, she asks, "And you, Lamorak?"

"Feh, just boring stuff, like what Kay said. I was looking forward to headhunting the Emperor himself, but it seemed Bedivere hits the lucky jackpot! Hahaha!" He heartily laughs, before subduing his outburst of emotion by producing a stack of parchments. "Of course, the written report is already finished, unlike that brother of yours who were enjoying his 'performance'..."

A punch is thrown, hard and lethal, though aimed at Lamorak's shoulder without any ill will. Kay's fist hits it with a dull 'thud', failing to do any damage against the tree-trunk-like biceps and triceps. For sure, an untrained squire would earn a severe concussion if it lands on their face, but certainly not Lamorak, one of the Knights of the Round Table.

Quietly, as if lost in thought, Bedivere also takes out a stack of documents, twice as thick as Lamorak's, from underneath his coat.

And then...

"Why are you all looking at me? I never did any reports," Merlin flatly declares. "It's your responsibility. I'm merely a powerless and narrow-minded advisor."

"Oh, will you shut your trap just for once?!" Kay bitterly lambasts the magus. "And Arthur, you too! I'll get it done; don't pressure me into doing it!"

"Then please submit it in 15 minutes to Agravain, Kay," Altria cruelly dictates, ignoring her step-brother's disbelieving face. Now that the battle review is over, she can focus on the smaller details.

"Gareth, how is your apprenticeship under Bedivere?"

"A-Ah, yes! It's going amazingly well, Your Majesty! No worries here!" Gareth cheerfully salutes, rigidly performing court behaviors.

Giving off a small smile at the girl's attitude, Altria then asks Bedivere, "What is your opinion of her, my friend?"

"Problematic and immature, but with potential."

"U-Uuu..." Gareth winces at the harsh evaluation.

Calmly, Bedivere explains, "Her decision to perform a surprise assassination against Anastasius is commendable and brave, especially because I cannot risk such manoeuvre. She analyzed the situation and decided on the best course of action, of which I had no criticism. The failure of the mission was also due to outside circumstances, and her valor in fighting out of the enemy's encirclement went beyond Gawain's." He shoots his apprentice a cold stare, continuing, "If only you consulted me on this matter beforehand, then I would have given you a perfect score, young lady. You still have much to learn, understood?"

"Yes..." Gareth weakly replies.

Nodding in appreciation, Bedivere questions his king, "Your Majesty, forgive my abruptness, but shouldn't there be a group who must make their introductions and reports? Why only listen to one half of the witnesses?"

Agravain is the one who answers.

"Currently, they're under medical supervision, which His Majesty should've taken part too. That red-haired man insisted they be allowed some rest 'to preserve good judgement', he claimed." Flipping over his notes, he frowns lightly, saying, "Although... isn't Avalon in Her Highness Princess Mordred's possession? Why hasn't she healed yet? Your Majesty?"

"Mordred's injuries were not only caused by Scáthach, because there were still lingering aftermaths after their first encounter, back when we were fighting both the Picts and the Saxons," Altria admits. "I failed to notice it, and before you all rush in and claim it was not my own fault, _it was_. As a parent and leader, it was my responsibility to make sure those under me were fit for battle. Therefore, Sir Shirou is rectifying that issue right now, and excused from this meeting."

"Are you sure they're not just banging each other right now?"

"Kay!" Altria sternly warns. "Watch your mouth!"

"What? Is it impossible? That lovey-dovey couple will just take every opportunity presented to them, dear si- ah, brother. Your daughter's all grown up; don't be too uptight about her relationships!"

Thankfully, no one really notices his near faux pas.

Snickering, the taller knight says, "You're just jealous. Finally, a normal reaction coming out of you after all these years..."

"Enough!" Altria declares, face reddening. "This is not the appropriate place to discuss such matters. Come, we must finalize our next move...!"

Suddenly, the door is knocked a few times. Instinctively, from the too-much strength used in banging the intricate wooden door, they all know it's Mordred on the other side.

Not expecting her daughter to come, Altria chokes on her greeting, "C-Come in!"

A head covered in golden hair pops from between the crack with a questioning gaze. "Did you guys just finish? Am I late?" Mordred asks.

"We're halfway there, Your Highness," Agravain replies. "The next agenda is about the Holy Grail, as well as a report on the progress of finding the whereabouts of Nimue's camp."

Grinning, Mordred gingerly steps forward towards the meeting table, with a gait completely mismatched with her bright expression.

"Mordred? Is your recovery not going well?" Altria asks. "If you are tired, then I shall have the reports delivered to you..."

"Nah, I'm fine," Mordred waves it off. "Shirou was... _intense_... hehehe... So I'm a bit worn out... fufuh... but everything's fine! See?" To prove her point, she lightly hops in place and throws several shadow jabs, all of which causes the documents spread across the table to fly everywhere. Expecting this, Merlin taps his toes into the ground, carefully regulating the resulting airflow to avoid a mess.

"Ho... He's very skilled. I can see you're back at optimum health, Your Highness... No, even fitter than before!" Merlin exclaims, his eyes glittering with similar excitement. "It's a shame I couldn't study his methods... I have to admit his ability- Ah, please don't look at me like that! I never planned to dissect you in the last month! It's a progress!"

"Father, can I kill him?"

"I tried many times; sadly, he is more slippery than an eel," Altria admits, rather irritated at Mordred's implied... 'healing methods' by the redheaded man. "If Sir Shirou is such a fine magus to the point of fully restoring your body's functionality, which Merlin and Avalon failed to do completely, it may be wise to replace this buffoon with your master, no?"

Indeed, it was a strange injury Mordred had. Merlin, with all his expertise, could never pinpoint down the problem with her right arm after mishandling Clarent's full power without slicing her body open. Avalon, too, failed to eradicate the problem completely, which told Altria it's not a matter of 'healing', but Mordred's injury was closer to something 'being wrong'. She has to question Shirou, but that's for a later time.

"Are you just here to play around, brat?"

"What did you say?!" Mordred glares at Kay.

Ignoring her, he speaks straight to Altira, "So, what's that about the Holy Grail earlier?"

At the mention of the Holy Grail, the room falls silent.

Altria begins to speak. "From Gawain, Tristan, and Cecilia's report, the boy called Galahad, an associate of Scáthach, exhibited a strange power in the middle of the match. Gawain especially compared the energy the boy gave off as being similar to the Holy Grail he glimpsed during his quest. The details are in Merlin's hands, so please explain, revered teacher."

"You only called me that when it's convenient, bah..." Merlin complains, but explains further nonetheless. "it's difficult to gain concrete evidence from an eyewitness account, but after analyzing those three's memories, there's a strong suggestion that somehow, a piece of the Grail was housed within Galahad, if not the full article itself."

Lamorak whistles. "That made our job that much easier! If it's still in Nimue's side, it'd be hell for us to take it!"

"Partly," Merlin says. "He did escape, and certainly not in the Lady of the Lake's direction. I dispatched several of my students and familiars to sweep the forest, and some trails exist which suggested he traveled to Corbenic, which was sealed off of Nimue's influence after Mister Shirou was there."

"Corbenic, again?" Bedivere ponders. "Why does that place keep coming up? And how did it become 'sealed off'?"

"Ah, it's not Shirou's work, but Nyneve's," Mordred corrects Merlin. "She's Nimue's sister, so doing so was child's play to her. i heard it from the woman herself."

The magus nods in acknowledgement. "Maybe I misunderstood Mister Shirou's words. In any case, King Fisher and Elaine must be warned. It's a race to secure the Holy Grail itself, now that we're closer than ever."

"Um..."

The experienced knights and one magus turn their heads to the source of the voice, Gareth.

"I-I apologize for butting in, but... what about Sir Lancelot and Her Highness Guinevere? M-Must we take resources off them?"

Bedivere lightly slaps her lower back, eliciting a yelp from the young girl.

"If you are here, then His Majesty has deemed your opinion worthy, child," he warns warmly. "Don't be nervous. Let out your mind in a concise and polite manner."

"Y-Yes!"

"Excellent question, Gareth," Altria remarks, smiling. "Like Bedivere said, please raise your head high. Your ascension to the Round Table is near; it would not do for you to be this fidgety."

Raising two fingers in the air, she continues, "And that is where I would like to divide the quests. Because the Holy Grail quest gives a considerable advantages to purity and virginity, I would like you, Gareth, to lead the expedition this time. You shall be assisted with Miss Cecilia and Miss Filvis."

"Filvis? Why her?" Merlin asks, curious. "She's gotten stronger, sure, maybe even compared to Vivian, but there's plenty of knights and magi available as support."

"Have you not noticed, old man?" Mordred chides, earning a twitch of the eyebrows from the young-looking magus. "Miss Elf's gotten attached to my student, so this is a good chance to deepen their relationship."

"And," Altria cuts in strongly, "I sense her experience in combat, compared to Gareth and Miss Cecilia, will protect them better. For dealing with Nimue and her group, I shall leave it to you and your beloved, Mordred. Speak with Agravain for the logistics you need... after you finished your admistrative training. Is that understood?"

Hearing she still needs to do paperwork dampens Mordred's mood greatly.

"Ugh... Yes, Father..."

Altria nods. "Good. Kay, Lamorak, I would like to spend more effort for the launch of our naval army. Our defenses at the Strait must be elevated to another level, if we wish to reduce casualties inland. Bagdemagus and Percival are already at the production site in Falmouth and Milford Haven, respectvely; meet them there."

"Father, isn't Dorset a more strategic location to launch a counteroffensive against the Romans?"

"I am glad you are ahead in your studies, Mordred, but yes, normally, you would be right. However, logistical constrains meant we could not transport enough goods into that area to develop it as a military base. It _is_ a prime area to develop in the future, though; please keep in mind of that."

"I don't know whether you're praising me or calling my old self an idiot..."

Ignoring Mordred's muttering, Agravain is furiously scribbling down Altria's words on a number of parchments. As the sole secretary of the Round Table, there were many days when he got behind on his physical training in order to finish administrative road blocks, so his physique is inferior to even Gareth, but his mind is already reading several steps ahead, in order to create a clear path to the future his beloved king envisioned.

Both Kay and Lamorak inwardly wince, because they dislike supervising over engineering projects. As Knights of the Round Table, indeed, they are no longer 'normal' knights, who are only conscripted during wars and become guards and security officer in peace time. They are all lords of a plot of land, which means a lot of managing the economics and cultural development of their own area, both of which Kay is actually quite decent at. However, 'quite decent' doesn't mean 'affection', so his opinion is of the same with Lamorak...

...especially with this latest project, which was brought forth when they noticed how easily and unobstructedly the Romans sailed their ships onto British shores. Fortunately, the lack of development in the southern part of the island meant they actually had to make a detour towards either the southeast or southwest of the island in order to avoid the same logistical nightmare the Brits are having now to build a harbor there, just the other way around.

Both Percival and Bagdemagus actually _like_ such tedious development duties, compared to the normal bloody stuff knights in legends did. Well, this _is_ the real world, not stories, and with it comes the hardships omitted in those very same stories. The ships are engineered with the join effort of Bagdemagus, the thin, spectacled knight, and several of Merlin's students after some secret missions to steal Roman ships design, as well as trading with the Scandinavian seafarers from the east.

The capital required to fund such a large scale operation nearly caused Agravain to get a stroke, but he bravely hung on in a manner befitting his position as a Knight of the Round Table and eventually auditted the entire process. After victories against the Picts and the Saxons, the area gained has finally begun to turn over some profit, most of which was immediately invested in this new harbor.

As Kay ends his long thought, the meeting is already over, and he is the last Knight to leave.

With nothing to say in particular to his half-sister, he waves his hand in the air as a salute and leaves the room, with only Altria's voice acknowledging his departure.

"May good fortune be with you, Brother."

* * *

"You know... you look different, as of late," McGregor quips, making Filvis to turn her head in confusion.

"In what way?" Filvis asks, slightly irritated by the delay her comrade causes for asking. She's going to accompany her sister to her third expedition, and their first together, and this special occasion is about to be marred by a large bloodstain soon to be formed in front of her... _'No, that thought won't do. Calm, calm...'_

The simple-looking black-haired man replies, "Not sure... You just felt more... at ease, I guess? You're never one to parade your appearance in front of other people, but you went out and mingled with them common folks, didn't you? I don't think you've ever done that without our full uniform."

"It just fell out of fashion for me."

That flimsy lie is... well, _flimsy_ , but in regards of their working relationship, McGregor relents.

"Good for you. Going for the Holy Grail would be a great opportunity for all of us, so make sure you bring back a sample, alright?" He says, half-joking. As fellow magi, the two of them and the rest of Merlin's students possess a very strong level of curiosity regarding everything around them; although, unknown to the rest of them, Filvis has begun to feel her drive as a magus to wane. Even if she hasn't, there's no way an article as precious as the Holy Grail can be 'sampled', as he put it. The glory will fall to the team that retrieves it.

In the past, Sir Percival and Bors set out on the first expedition to seek out the Grail, rumored to reside within Fisher's domain. However, they weren't chosen by the Grail despite their might and purity of body and mind due to several mistakes, and the quest was abandoned in order to prioritize the Kingdom's war of supremacy. Now, the chance to take the Grail has opened up again, thus Filvis is busily preparing for the trip, having been chosen by the King.

McGregor, meanwhile, as one of the main architects of the newly-commissioned ships, is taking his routine break from his shipbuilding duties in Camelot.

Initially, he wanted to take the time to further his research for maritime alchemical metallurgy, but the hustle and bustle in the castle caught his eye, as well as his recently-unmasked comrade.

Between them and their fellow students, they knew of Filvis's heritage, but none of her background. As a show of mutual respect, none of them has probed any deeper into each other's history more than they themselves allowed, and frankly, he didn't care anyway. They're all here to strive to reach perfection in their craft; as long as they maintained a healthy working relationship, not scheming and killing and sabotaging each other left and right, their path was clear: to surpass Merlin.

However, seeing how great their master was, and still is, has caused some of them to lose hope recently, relegating themselves to be mere asssistants to the court magus. McGregor isn't one of them, but even he has begun to feel the weariness associated with the long, arduous path of Magecraft.

It's his fortune that he's able to see Filvis during his break as well.

Unlike her normal clothes, which are plain and boring, her new white dress accentuates her femininity nicely without being too revealing. He, as a man, won't let this feast for the eyes to waste, so he's purposely buying time talking as his eyes secretly ogles his female colleague. Additionally, she seems to be preoccupied with something in her mind, so his gaze goes unnoticed.

' _Oh...! That's a nice angle!'_

This is all normal, normal.

That is his last thoughts as a gloved fist buries itself into his skull, knocking him unconscious.

Filvis huffs, before hastily dragging her suitcase away to meet her sister.


	32. Family Feud

**Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone! Of course, if you're from a culture which doesn't celebrate these two holidays during this time, then please kindly ignore the above greetings and avoid suing me (unlike some idiot bureaucrats in my country). Hopefully, I can finish this story this year, and move on to HV-S02 (the sequel). Plus, as a bit of a holiday present, the epilogue will contain a sequel hook. See if you can guess the next setting SHIROU will be dropped into.**

 **Now, some mailbag answers and housekeeping:**

 **Masterx01: Yes, in later chapters, I've changed it when I noticed the official phrase of that area. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll change the earlier chapters because of IRL issues. Likewise with the change of 'Prana Burst' to 'Mana Burst'. This story still uses the old jargon, but I'll mend it in future chapters. Thanks for the heads up. And, again, yes, this won't follow the canon from Fate/Extella, mainly because I lacked the detailed knowledge I liked when I write my stories.**

 **Now, enjoy, and don't forget to review, follow, and favorite.**

 **Disclaimer: There's so many girls in F/GO... Who should I pick for my waifu next... Hmm...**

* * *

I am rubbing Mordred's head.

Specifically, her steaming head, well-heated after a torturous session (for her) of studying and sorting out paperwork. There were times when her motivation to become a king ran dangerously low, nearly throwing all my life's work into waste, but I felt proud the moment the last piece of paper was signed and categorized. As a result, nearly all of her thought process was halted, comically sizzling like a life-sized robot, and she turned into a docile cat curling in my lap, being pampered.

Altria looked at me in disgust, but her feelings were secondary to Mordred's for me.

Soon, our fooling around together lasted until dinner, of which I cooked her favorite dishes, making her eat in silence for the sole reason of not wasting my food. I ended up giving some of the royal chefs quite a considerable amount of mental trauma for performing feats of cooking never before seen in this era, but I settled that dispute by promising to impart some of my techniques into them.

Altria also approved wholeheartedly after tasting my dish, which was a plus, for once.

It seemed the term 'course meal' hasn't been invented yet, with royal families usually bringing out their food _en masse_ across a long table. That's fine in itself if the diners were desperately hungry and finished their meals fast enough before it went cold, but for me, food that's past its supposed temperature when eaten was sacrilege. Therefore, after teaching the maids on how to serve my dishes, an extravagant meal was held with 9 courses.

"T-This is... potato?! How crispy!" Lamorak guffawed, enjoying the small bite-sized pieces of the potato nest as the hors d'oeuvre. The topping was crab and apple, both taken from the Romans' stash because it's currently difficult to get them in Britain.

The soup course was served alongside the salad, but I chose a warm bean soup with a roasted butternut caprese instead of the more traditional bone stock and cold vegetables.

"I don't get it... how come beans can be white...?" Bagdemagus pondered while daintily scooping the cream-infused bean soup, a fork of lightly-charred butternut in his other hand. "Butternut, lemon, tomatoes... an exquisite forest combination of taste!"

The other salad was less warmly welcomed, since I used crab and squid extensively. It seemed crustaceans weren't consumed as much as fishes here, therefore the Knights and their accompanying squires looked at it with caution, especially since I laid them on top of a green sauce.

Mordred, as always, was wolfing down course after course, though I was happy to report her table manners had considerably improved. Her knife and fork whipped around the table as fast as she swung Clarent on the battlefield, precisely picking apart the crab meat and squid legs, smearing them with a small amount of sauce, and popped them into her mouth.

The others looked at her voracious appetite and blissful face, before throwing caution to the wind and sampled the seafood salad. As expected, though, it wasn't to everyone's taste. No one dared to utter a complain directly at my face, even if I wouldn't mind, but it's a noteworthy mistake for future references.

The rest of the meal was quite well-received, especially the main courses of beef and quail. Normally, due to a lack of understanding of heat transfer, meat dishes were often overcooked, bleeding off most of their natural tastes. I used Magecraft liberally in the process of cooking this extravagant meals, and therefore the tastes came out the way I desired them.

The servant girls were all drooling over the dessert. It's a construct created using modern styles, and the ingredients were splendid as well, thus the sorbet and trifle came out well. It seemed no matter where or when, girls were weak to sweets.

Mordred over-ate, as usual, and so she spent the last few minutes laying around her room while being pampered by me.

"Hu... m-more... Shirou..."

"She worked you hard, huh?"

"Guh...! D-Don't mention it anymore..." Mordred groans. "She must've hated me or something..."

I tap her lips for her dangerous words. "Hush, now. We both know she loves you. Don't say things like that."

"Hmm..." she hums, before looking straight at me. "What about you, Shirou?"

Her gaze turns my blood cold.

She knows. _She knows._

"Of course I love you," I immediately reply, brushing off her probing eyes. "Why do you need to ask?"

"I had a dream of you."

Her impish smile reveals the extent of her knowledge of my... emotional condition.

"Merlin called it... a 'dream cycle', right? I dreamt of you, of your Reality Marble, of your past, Shirou. Everything of you... _I saw_."

My voice nearly cracks under her gaze.

"H-How long have you been seeing this... dream?"

"Ever since we laid together for the first time."

"...I'm sorry."

Looking at my dejected expression, she cradles my cheek in surprise.

"O-Oi, Shirou! Why are you apologizing like this?! If I had an issue with it, I'd have told you long ago, right?"

"You... really don't understand, do you?"

"Of course I don't!" She yells at my face. "I'm not as smart as you, or Father, or Cecilia! But I know myself! I don't need to understand, just the parts that are important is enough for me."

I grab her shoulder tightly.

"I said sorry... because you deserve better, Mordred."

"Who the fuck said that?! Who said there's anything better for me than you?!"

"You are still young, Mordred. You've only known me since the day you were born, and thus your view of me was distorted," I grimly say, wincing at her insistence. "Like how young animals treated the first adult they saw as an object of worship and love, so did our human brain as well."

"No! I love you!"

I kiss her softly on the lips to shut her up.

"I know you do. Now that you know my heart, you _do_ know this love I gave you... is just mere imitation of yours, right?" Bitterly smiling, I pat her head. "This kind of love... isn't good enough. You deserve more, my love."

\- Slap!

"You... You idiot!"

I am in awe of the strength behind her slap, but even more of the tears which start to accumulate in the corners of her eyes.

She buries her head in my chest so I can't see that exact tears, but the wetness from her face still dampens my shirt.

"I don't care if I deserve more...! I love you, and only you, Shirou... why can't you see that?" Her shoulder trembles in exertion to sniffle her cries, rocking me to my core. "I don't need anyone else! Even if you told me to go away, I'll... I'll always chase after you... so... please don't leave me...!"

My words are caught in my throat, earning some cursing from my mind. I can converse with kings, royalties, and inhuman beings so powerful they won't even spare a thought to kill humans, yet my tongue turns limp when faced with her. is it her emotions that are flowing into me, blurring my judgement? Or is it something else?

"Living like that... living without feeling anything... Isn't it lonely?" She asks with upturned eyes.

"I...!"

She forces my head to face her directly, cutting off any avenues of escape.

"Truthfully, I've already decided long ago, ever since I began seeing the dream cycle."

"D-Decide on what?" I ask nervously.

"If you can only imitate love, then I'll simply pour so much love into you so that imitation becomes real. If you can only imitate happiness, then I'll make you so happy, you won't be able to tell the difference! Who said a fake couldn't surpass the original? I'll... I'll make you love me for real! Wait for it!"

Without giving me any time to reply, her lips devour mine with abandon.

At that moment, a strange warmth blooms within me.

' _...love?'_

Maybe it's not too late for me, after all...

* * *

' _Damn!'_

Gawain frantically backpedals to avoid the upward slash from a wooden sabre, but against all expectations, the sabre shoots forward in the air, thrown with precision, and lands right on his face, breaking his nose. Without even time to register the pain, his legs are taken out from underneath him by a second wooden sabre, before a savage elbow to the gut slams him to the ground.

Shirou utters to the crowd around them, "Next."

Grunting, Gawain protests, "I... guh... I-I'm not done yet..."

The same sabre that tripped him down mercilessly smashes against his temple, knocking him out.

"Next."

The myriad of guards, knights and squires gulp audibly, before slowly shuffling backwards half a step, none of them eager to join the supposed 'training' orchestrated by the king.

Mordred sweatdrops.

"Father... I think asking him to 'go all-out' isn't very wise..."

Shaking her head, Altria disagrees. "No, 'tis a necessity. Even with overwhelming numbers, we struggled against Scáthach and that boy Galahad. Each of us has to reach another level, especially in regards to our weapon mastery."

Indeed, after reviewing their nearly-failed mission due to the spearwoman's interference, Altria and Merlin realized their lack of individual firepower. Each and every one of the Knights of the Round Table was capable on their own or when leading an army, but these later years had led them to rely more and more on their mystical and powerful weapons, instead of individual skill. Therefore, the King devised a simple solution.

Put them in a life or death situation, in the hope of awakening a person's full potential.

' _Rather, isn't this training regimen too extreme?!'_ Mordred complains in her head.

In reality, what Shirou is doing is similar to what she experienced many years ago when she just started her own training. However, comparing this event to that one, one difference bubbles clearly to the surface: Gawain and the others are great fighters, _but they're not Mordred_. It is as simple as that.

She, a homunculus perfected in design and nurture by both her mother and Shirou, naturally has much more potential in her waiting to be unlocked, as well as a greater resilience. Putting these people, _normal human beings_ , through this regimen is akin to throwing pigs into a thresher and hoping they come out of the other side as well-cooked cutlets.

"Do not fret," Altria reassures Mordred by patting her back. "See? There is always someone keen to improve."

After Gawain is carried off to the side, a girl with platinum-blonde hair steps forward.

Looking at her brother's miserable state, Gareth can only murmur an apology. After all, she will swing her sword not to uphold her brother's honor or take revenge, but for her own selfish needs.

Raising an eyebrow, Shirou asks, "Shouldn't you prepare for your departure, Dame Gareth? The quest for the Grail is tough, after all."

"A-Ah, please don't be so formal with me!" Gareth waves her hands around, awkward after being addressed so formally. "Sir Shirou is Her Highness's teacher and partner, so calling me 'Gareth' is fine..." Her voice trails off, but her lips keep mouthing off the word 'dame' over and over again, seemingly mystified by the title.

"If you put it that way, I'm not knighted either," Shirou says, shrugging his shoulders. "Is that alright for me to speak this freely in front of a noble? I don't care much about etiquette, as you just saw with your brother, but I like to be polite, at the very least."

"Shirou! What's taking you so long!?" Mordred shouts from the sidelines, clearly irritated at the sight of him chatting up yet another girl. She has resolved her heart not to feel jealous over every little thing, but she just can't help it every now and then.

Giving off a wry smile, he gestures to the young girl in front of him to start her attack.

He was asked by Altria to train her Knights, in return for blessing his relationship with Mordred. It wasn't something he particularly wanted, since even if they were forbidden to meet, he'd still brave Camelot's defenses in order to meet Mordred. And even if Mordred wished for him to stay away so she can be crowned king, he'd fulfill her wish, as long as she's happy.

Yes, as long as Mordred's happiness is complete, whether his presence is needed or not is trivial. If he needs to disappear, then so be it. If he needs to be by her side, he'd oblige. That's the least he can do to repay her love to him.

My interest is piqued when Gareth pulls out a long-short twin scimitars combo, similar to a katana-wakizashi pairing common in feudal Japan. Using twin weapons is much harder than a single one, just from the fact one's swing strength is practically halved before they even start. Furthermore, the coordination between the left and right half of the body must be perfect in order to not leave any gaps one's opponent can exploit. I spent a decade of virtual time in Alaya's separate space just to decode every single paired weapons that existed in history, which, given my disposition, is already a considerable amount of time.

Her thin, delicate fingers nimbly thrusts the longer scimitar straight to my face with a slight twisting motion.

Due to that particular move's requirements, her body is tilted to her left, maximizing her right side's length for the thrust. In addition, it practically hides the shorter scimitar behind her, in hope of catching me off guard.

Really, hasn't she realized I can see through walls? Of course, I'm not using that particular ability in this mock battle. However, my five senses, honed to their maximum, can detect her left hand's movements just fine.

Rather than dodging her thrust, I simply let loose with a left kick to her midsection.

Her right arm is still mid-way through the thrusting motion before her body folds sideways with a sickening crunch, tumbling several times before stopping.

Gawain, now conscious, is looking on with disbelief. How, in the name of the Lord, can someone's leg outreach a sword and an arm? No matter how you look at it, as long as one is human, there's no one that has a leg longer than the hand-and-a-half long scimitar plus Gareth's entire right arm.

I said I didn't dodge her attack, but it wasn't entirely true. I shuffled my feet _forward_ half a step, before tilting my upper body backward, almost beyond my original position, to lengthen my leg, before kicking with all my might. The motion between the forward step, lean back, and kick is completed as one fluid motion, escaping the sight of those unskilled enough to back down from facing me.

Impressively, she uses her tumbling momentum to leap back up with just a smack to the ground with both her fists. She grimaces as she stands, inevitably starting to touch and feel her right side, before muttering several unintelligible words. Her left hand starts to glow, healing her shattered left ribcage in seconds.

' _So she's a magic user? Well, learning something new every day...'_

I explicitly called her 'magic user' simply because she's not a magus, like me. Unlike those arrogant guys, I don't discriminate. I judge a person's strength based on their combat effectiveness, not their philosophy.

I could beat her up before she finished healing, but I decided to wait. Her Magecraft needs some work; in the battlefield, that precious few seconds of standing still will kill her.

Her eyes shine with an impetuous will to 'never give up'. A good look.

No, it's not just that. Her eyes... aren't looking at me. She's aiming to reach someplace else, someplace far away... Or, to be precise, _someone_.

Smiling lightly, I wave at her with the wooden mockery of Bakuya to come over and start again.

The surroundings' noise fades into the background as I concentrate harder than before. There are certain parts of her movement that is similar, which means I've met the one who taught her swordsmanship before. I choose not to rely on my Pure Eyes, trying to enjoy the old sensation of figuring out an opponent's techniques without cheating.

She lowers her body to the ground, before launching herself at me with a single leap. Her right foot lands just outside of my sword range, before she puts some power into it and changes her trajectory from a horizontal one to a vertical one, half-somersaulting in mid-air. Mid-dash, the shorter scimitar is held in a backhand grip, so its tip plunges down towards me faster than if it's held normally.

I shuffle my feet to my left, letting her left hand swing down into nothing, but the longer scimitar has already followed my movement. With the full torque from her vertical spin, its blade accelerates towards me with enough force to shatter boulders. Even when Reinforced, I'm not sure these wooden blades can hold up against that attack.

If it landed, that is.

Rotating my right blade a half-circle, I lightly tap her long scimitar at just the right centre of mass mid-swing, letting it smash a few inches away from my fight foot. The dust it kicked up isn't that bad, because our training ground is grass, but even this slight distraction will surely be followed up.

Indeed; the short scimitar is back in a normal grip, and she thrusts it deep into my mid-section. Not only that, but she also twisted her entire body, culminating in a spiraling thrust that contains a massive amount of energy at its tip, like a drill.

"Hhhhyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!"

She screams in accordance to the brutality of the attack, bolstering her body to move forwards just that little bit more to finally land a hit on me.

\- Pssht.

Her blade stops just before it grazed my shirt.

Her face displays her shock clearly at the miss, before contorting to an expression filled with agony as she stumbles forward to the ground.

Not missing this opportunity, I check her torso with my knee and places one of my wooden sabres to her neck, pressuring her windpipe enough to render her helpless.

Now, how did that attack miss? Even with Gareth's general inexperience, a high-speed, full-power thrust launched in close range will, at the very least, generate a reaction from me, whether it's a block, dodge, or even a clean hit.

Just as she starts to accelerate forwards to generate momentum, I simply threw one of the wooden sabres horizontally to her forward knee, loaded with magic energy. Turning the weak weapon into a Broken Phantasm, albeit a low-level one, completely obliterates her kneecap even with the relatively low speed it's thrown. I only used the strength of my wrist to flick it, or she would've lost an entire leg if I threw it with all my might.

Combining the smash with her charge resulted in her falling face-forwards to the ground, with me sitting on her back as the victor.

\- Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound of metal gauntlets hitting each other makes me to look up, where Altria is smiling with a dangerous glint in her eyes. None of her subordinates decides to follow her clapping, with Mordred looking confused at the sudden gesture.

"Gareth, you have done well. Heal and rest your body."

"Y-Yes... Your Majesty- G-Guh...!" Gareth struggles to get words out after I let her go, most likely from the pain and shock.

Tristan, sitting on the grass while having his arm treated after a previous bout with me, looks up at Altria with an alarmed gaze.

"Your Majesty, please refrain yourself from any rash actions," Tristan warns. "If not, then-"

"You sound like Bedivere, Tristan," Altria cuts him off. "Do you think that I would fare so badly?"

Oh, dear.

She unsheathes Excalibur and jumps forward, landing several steps from me.

Still smiling, she curtsies. "Forgive my suddenness, but I would like some lessons as well."

' _There's no getting out of this situation, isn't there?'_

Returning her smile, I says sarcastically, "Be warned. My lessons don't come cheap, Your Majesty."

"I shall let you marry Mordred if you win. What do you think?"

"Deal."

My quick answer causes Mordred to blush heavily as the people around us eyes her with a mix of acceptance, jealousy, and general sneering.

Before the word finishes coming out of my mouth, Altria's Prana Burst has already exploded behind her, lunging at me with a generic downward vertical slash. Without giving me time to breathe, the slash turns into a deadly combination of slashes, thrusts, and blunt hits from the hilt. The initial slash swerves halfway through my dodge, changing direction upwards diagonally, but it's a feint to get me in range for a thrusting attack. She changes her grip mid-swing, allowing Excalibur to shift its weight from the upward swing to the straight thrust aimed at my throat.

Still, those intricate opening moves fail to graze me.

Not giving up, she uses her entire body to generate the torque and speed necessary for her attacks, aided by Prana Burst. Skillful uses of it allows for one's body to instantly change direction, like how a puppet being blasted from one side to the other by an explosion, but the burden on the body is severe. Altria, with her enhanced body from her dragon lineage, and Mordred, with her perfected homunculus body, can naturally withstand it, but I need to Reinforce myself to copy this technique before using it.

Her body turns clockwise and anti-clockwise intermittently, from both above and below, unleashing a hurricane of slashes so fast and powerful it's actually cutting the ground apart just by grazing it. Her legs move in harmony with her will, flexibly and strongly anchoring her body to the ground to generate maximum force. Her wide stance is also aimed at cutting across mine, leaving me less room to manouvre even in this wide open practice ground.

Even with these seemingly lethal attacks, she still fails to graze me.

Kanshou and Bakuya has already materialized the second she attacked, replacing the wooden sabres, but I didn't even feel the need to use them.

Suddenly, she jumps back, stopping her onslaught.

"How strange..." she mutters. Looking straight at me, she accuses, "Are you reading my mind? No, rather, you are reading the future, are you not?"

"Not exactly."

I use Kanshou to point at Excalibur, saying, "What I read is your sword, not you."

"Psychometry, is it? Is that your Magecraft?"

"Partly, yes," I concede. "The other part, well... let me foretell you a story."

She lowers her sword, indicating I have her attention.

"In the future, amidst your obsession with the Holy Grail, you let your spirit be claimed by the World, allowing it to be summoned throughout the times whenever a chance of gaining the Holy Grail arises. One of those times is in the far distant future, more than a millenia from now... with me as your partner."

She widens her eyes in surprise.

"So, it was part Magecraft, part familiarity. I witnessed, or will witness, your swordsmanship and other techniques," I explain. "Every little detail of it."

I tap the side of my head with Kanshou's edge to ram home the point.

Her lips part, letting out a question. "A... time traveller...?"

"Again, not quite. Ah, maybe I should've explained better." I continue, "The me right here... you can say was born from that 'me' in the future. We are two completely different person. That is the simple explanation."

I swing Bakuya in a horizontal slash, but even with my Reinforced legs, my step-in doesn't reach quite far enough to hit her. Still, her Instinct reflexively causes her to position her sword vertically to block the attack.

\- Splat.

A red line appears across her chest under the neat cut on her breastplate. The wound is shallow, but I'm not using my full strength anyway.

"For example, I know how to turn your ability against you."

Altria narrows her eyes, her fighting spirit burning up.

"Ho? Then... please enlighten me!"

Without giving me time to speak, she stomps onto the ground again, caving it underneath her Prana Burst, and accelerates towards me. Her speed is close to an actual bullet, and as such, near impossible to react towards.

If one can't predict her movements beforehand, that is.

I match her charge, lowering my body to the ground to reduce wind resistance. Surprised, Altria lets out a gasp, but it doesn't manage to slow her attack down in the slightest.

Unlike last time, my step-in definitely puts me in reach of my attack, and hers as well.

Both of us swing our weapons forward at the same time, Excalibur meeting... thin air.

Before Altria's widened eyes can shake off their surprise, I have already dematerialized Kanshou and Bakuya, and summoned something else instead in a split second.

 **Kronia**  
~ Cutting Myself Apart from Father ~

An gigantic adamantite scythe has already pointed itself at the side of Altria's neck, ready to behead her with a flick of my wrist.

Earlier, Altria swung her sword with the assumption of me wielding twin swords. My charge made her to expect a clash of weapons, of which she planned to take advantage of and overpower me with Prana Burst. However, because I instantly switched to the much longer Kronia, her sense of distance was messed up, because my initial leading movement of swinging Kanshou was identical to the one to swing Kronia diagonally, _above_ Excalibur and onto her neck.

The tip of the scythe has already cut a thin line across the lower part of her jaw, letting a small trickle of blood out to accompany her earlier wound. The blade isn't actually touching her skin, but the divine aura coating it, a leftover of Uranus's body as Cronus castrated him, is more than capable of hurting those near its vicinity.

Ah, I'm getting distracted.

Like I mentioned previously, because her sense of distance was messed up, Excalibur ended up missing me by quite some margin, helped by Altria's Instinct telling her to back off from Kronia's giant frame which helped her to stop her attack.

"That's enough, Shirou."

Mordred, who without anyone's notice has already appeared beside her father, moves Kronia away from Altria's head by grabbing the blunt side. I dematerialize it immediately, for fear of the men and women around me considering me hostile to the King and a target to be killed. It won't be a problem if we fight, but it'd damage Mordred's standing among them, so I comply.

In any case, she didn't really expect me to kill Altria, right? If she did see the Dream Cycle, then she should've known Altria was one of the original Shirou Emiya's lover and closest partner. Even EMIYA, who had become so disillusioned he saw everyone with apathy, held a soft spot for her. Plus, my evaluation of Altria has risen from its original value, because she didn't scorn Mordred for who she was, unlike her original self.

I bow to show my respect.

"My apologies for my rude behavior, Your Highness."

Sheathing Excalibur back into Avalon, Altria sighs while smiling, her wounds closing fast all the while I speak.

"Really, a son-in-law should not be so formal towards me, no? We are family, after all."

"F-Father...!" Mordred squeaks, blushing. "T-That's too soon! G-Geez!"

' _Now I'm the one getting embarrassed...'_

I awkwardly scratch the back of my head, my underconfidence agreeing with Mordred's point of view. I have no issue with the marriage itself, but how would it affect the world and its future? I was sent here to fix things, not making things even worse. A marriage with a princess from one of the most powerful kingdom currently will undoubtedly impact the international relationship with other nations, much less the upheaval that would happen inside the Kingdom of Britain.

Plus, I sense Mordred isn't ready for such commitment, even though she's been pushing for me to stay with her beyond my mission time.

Ah, yes... I have started to forgot I wasn't supposed to stay with her for more time than necessary. However, Alaya has pointed out that letting emotions cloud some of my judgement may not be a bad thing, because my luck is generally good in that regard. It desires not a heartless killing machine, but an empathic emissary to ensure humanity's survival.

As I ponder on this thing, Mordred shuffles her father back into the crowd, silencing Altria's probing of my future plans.

* * *

Sensing a headache coming her way, Filvis rubs the sides of her temples.

She knows this is an important mission. Despite the short time of rest since that heated battle in the forest, Altria has sent them to investigate the Holy Grail's latest whereabouts. Even if they can't acquire it for the Kingdom's use, they must safeguard it against Nimue's schemes so that it won't be used wrongly again, after witnessing Galahad's ability.

So, how is it that this girl end up in bandages right on the date of their departure?

"I... I-I'm sorry, Miss Filvis..." Gareth weakly smiles, shuffling uncomfortably under the ellf's glare.

Not letting up, Filvis continues her bashing, "You... really are an idiot, aren't you?"

"Isn't that being too harsh, Miss Filvis? I mean, I understand her feeling of wanting ot test herself against Grandmaster, so..." Cecilia interjects, partially shielding Gareth's body with her own.

"Ugh..." Filvis groans, before saying, "It's harsher of you for not calling me 'sister', little sister..."

"A-Ah, well..." Cecilia twiddles her thumbs. "It's... awkward, I guess...? I mean, all these years we've never met..."

Goaded by Shirou, the elf finally let out the truth at Cecilia a few days ago, right after they arrived back in Camelot. Predictably, it's a tense and fumbled affair, since Filvis rarely ever let her emotions bubble to the surface. Her happiness of meeting Cecilia was clear, which was partly the reason why the younger blonde girl readily accepted the fact, but as a result, both their mannerisms around each other have become irregular.

Mordred happily pushes her student to be closer to Filvis, grinning ear to ear with a glint of mischievousness. Waving off Filvis's and Gareth's formal reply, she runs off to someplace else after dropping off Cecilia.

"Let's just take our time, shall we?" Filvis nervously suggests. "We don't have much time, after all. Are your preparations complete?" She addresses both her juniors, pointing at their surprisingly small luggage, similar to her own.

' _Did Master enchant their bags to enlarge the space inside?'_

Filvis enchants her own travel bag, making it a separate dimension to store things much bigger than itself. Each and every magus's enchantment is different due to the nature of their own Magecraft, and as such, the bags themselves have strict conditions as a trade off for its immense storage space, even though it's a popular Magecraft to master. For example, Filvis is able to store living things of lower order, like normal plants or animals, unlike most rudimentary spells which can only store inanimate objects. She has no interest, as of now, of Cecilia's and Gareth's bags' ability and restrictions, merely of what they store inside.

"No make-ups or frilly dresses, understand? Only practical things are allowed," Filvis warns.

"I don't have them in the first place, so I'm alright," Cecilia innocently quips.

' _Guh... I'll have to buy her lavish things for her birthday, then...!'_ Filvis decides in her mind. It's not bribery, but seeing her half-sister live so... say, _sparingly_ , her desire to pamper Cecilia blooms strongly.

Gareth also confirms her belongings.

Unlike most missions commissioned by the King, their departure from the castle is met with little to no fanfare, a complete opposite to the previous Grail quests. King Arthur has arbitrarily decided that prudence is necessary in recent times, and as such tasked them to move with as much secrecy as possible.

With only the sound of Mordred's retreating footsteps accompanying them, they set off into the wilderness.

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **K**

 **Kronia: Cutting Myself Apart from Father  
Rank: A+  
Type: Anti-Unit, Anti-God  
Range: 5  
Max. Targets: 3**

The giant scythe of Cronus, wielded in opposition of his father's tyranny. Appearance-wise, it's completely ordinary, unlike Zeus's taste for gaudy decorations in the future, with a long wooden handle and a well-forged adamantite blade. Despite that, it's near-indestructible by mortal hands, as normal weapons of non-divine origin would've destroyed itself upon contact with a divine being's skin.

Cronus castrated Uranus, his father, weakening him and defeating his rule over the world, starting the era of the Titans. In this form, the scythe is a mere weapon of murder, although the Titan failed to deliver the finishing blow against Uranus. If wielded properly by a divine being, this scythe is the representation of Cronus's legend and dominion over time, giving it a massive in power and a rule over time.

According to legends, Uranus's testicles and blood give birth to various diving beings, chief among which was Aphrodite. This was inaccurate, however; it's the scythe's power over time which transcended a normal cycle of life and death and gave birth to those diving beings from supposedly incomplete materials. This power is restricted when wielded normally, or by a being not of divine origin.


	33. Small Talk, Big Impact

**Hey, guys! Getting a bit more regular on the updates here, mainly because it's still sleepy season for me IRL. I updated the previous chapter with a character, for those of you who didn't notice it, so check it out! And yes, there will be some more references from other fandoms, both anime/manga and games, but I'll try not to let them detract from the main story. Mostly, I'd just use them as SHIROU's Noble Phantasms and such.**

 **And despite how much fun I had writing the characters foreign to the Nasuverse (Cecilia, Filvis, and the guys from the Reverse Side of the World), I've decided to reduce their presence in my next project. I'll still announce it in its first Author's Note, so this is just a heads up. I used them here because the setting is rather barren, and because Nasu loves to put more and more Saberclones who have little lore to them aside from fanservice (and what a great one they are!), but since it won't be so in the next project, I'm cutting them out.**

 **As a teaser, the few Canon Foreigners for the next project will come from Campione! (among others).**

 **Be warned: some aspects of this chapter feels forced to me, but I don't think I can put them in other chapters. Bear with me on this one.**

 **Now, for the mailbag!**

 **Dragonjek: No, Divine Construct which was originally wielded by Divine Spirits and granted associated miracles by it is reduced in effectiveness when wielded by SHIROU, although mainly on its passive effects, because he lacked the 'Divinity' skill to wield them. Otherwise, it's as perfectly Traced as other weapons. I think I mentioned it in passing in previous chapters, although I might not emphasize this attribute enough. Thanks for the comment, though!**

 **: How good is 'Princess Lover'? Which is better, story-wise: the eroge or the anime?**

 **With that said, please enjoy the chapter! Don't forget to review, follow, and favorite!**

 **Disclaimer: If I was Nasu, I'd make Heaven's Feel the Movie available in international cinemas so I can watch it with my friends.**

* * *

I am back inside the abstract white space, a glowing blue orb floating lazily in front of me.

I don't think Alaya's in the mood of changing its form into another female body, because it stays silent even though some time has already passed, as if it's waiting for me to make my first move.

Is this how a student being called into the headmaster's office feel like? Or a subordinate to the chairman's office? Perhaps the only difference is the lack of nervousness permeating my consciousness. In fact, I am confused as to why it calls me here.

Yes, I can request its help for various things I encounter along my journeys. Heck, due to its whim of dropping me in the middle of nowhere without the knowledge of the particular era, location, or culture, this convenience is the minimum it should provide. Strangely, my pragmatic side doesn't often come out in these arguments when a clue from the all-knowing and all-encompassing entity could help massively.

Maybe because it won't be fun?

...don't be ridiculous. My duty-slash-ideal has no place for unnecessary 'fun', such as deliberately holding back myself from procuring information just so the suspense won't be broken. To my embarrassment, I still don't have the experience to cope with everything that fate can throw my way yet, so I'm taking things cautiously, without any assistance form Alaya, as a learning experience.

Will I ever stop learning? No. It's a ridiculous notion, one that will signal the end of my existence. There will always be something unexpected, something I won't be able to overcome in a split second without a second thought, and someone I fail to save. Hurtful as it might, as a Hero Vessel, these failures will serve as fodder to my growth, and for future Hero Vessels as well.

"Make a child."

\- BANG!

The sound of me face-dropping into the floor, both in surprise and embarrassment, echoes across the imaginary space.

Still in its sphere form, it seems Alaya has just said something outrageous.

"P-Pardon?"

Unperturbed, as always, it replies, "I have calculated the increasing difficulty in preparing bodies for your soul to inhabit in the future. Accounting for the lowering quality of human souls as they spread, the only chance an embryo can survive the Vesselification procedure is if it holds a part of previous Heroic Vessels. In short, one of your descendants."

"Wait, hang on, hang on, hang on!"

"That was two times more than necessary, child."

"I _freaking_ know!" I exclaim. "Wait for a moment while I compose my head! And don't peek into my mind!"

\- Fuu. Haa. Fuu. Haa.

"You do realize we are in a mental landscape where breathing is unnecessary?"

I glare at it as hard as I can.

"I hate you sometimes. Particularly _this_ time."

Having calmed down, I try to explain, "So... if this existence of mine is reincarnated into the future, the body will explode?"

"Yes."

"That's a short answer..." I grumble. "Now, if I may inquire, I have to... _spread_ my seeds across history to increase the chance of the birth of a body capable of withstanding being a Hero Vessel?"

Even though it's a sphere, I can sense it smiling happily.

"You understood well," it says. "Not only now, but future deployements as well. With as many females as possible, if you would. Choose them carefully, although I shall refrain from criticizing your choice from now on."

I want to rub my temples hard due to the impending headache, but realizing it's a mental landscape, it'd be ineffective, so I simply sigh.

"I spent all these years trying to avoid that question with Mordred, because her current body can't handle a childbirth. Even if she can, giving birth to... to _my child_ , that's... a whole new can of worms that will open." I grimace. "History will already spiral out of control after what I've done, and what I influence Mordred to do, and now... what would happen if we have a child? Care to give an answer?"

Because it's a sphere, annoyingly, it can withstood my sarcastic glare without any change.

"Who knows?"

I really, _really_ want to hit it now.

But making a child with Mordred... becoming a true family... Something I will never experience for myself as a child after the choice I made.

' _You know, it doesn't sound so bad...'_

How hard can it be?

* * *

The nameless Roman captain runs through a densely packed forest, breathless, uncaring of the multitudes of branches and tree roots smashing into his broken armor set. His eyes have completely given out with no fighting spirit left in them, merely a prey running for his life from his natural predator. Even the stain on his crotch area is ignored, having relieved himself unconsciously just now.

"Haa... haa... haa...!"

It's here.

He can feel it, as sure as he can feel the sweat painfully entering his eyes. The cold wind rushing in from behind him are the sure hands of death, reaching out with its lifeless hand to take his neck.

A red flash runs through his body, faster than the wind itself, and diagonally bifurcates his body cleanly in two unequal halves.

Imina uses the back of his blade to scratch the back of his head, bemused by the corpse's expression at the time of his death.

"What a drag..." he sighs, as several red tentacles shoots out from the base of his blade and devours the lifeless pile of meat in front of him. The blade shines happily as it pulses crimson, beating like a human's heart as it absorbs the nutrients its master presented it.

The strong scent of blood wafts into his nose, signalling the arrival of his wife.

Smiling sweetly, as brilliant as when they exchanged wedding vows, she trots lightly towards him, reprimanding, "No slacking off, okay?"

Sensing her good mood, he asks, "Everything went smoothly?"

"Oh, yes!" She claps her hands once. "There's plenty of disrespectful dogs... fufufu... I made quite a harvest today, darling."

His old human self shudders at her giddiness for murder, but having lived with her for this long, he's slowly getting used to the elves' way of thinking. Rather, after Ellis... 'revives' him after his 'death', his sense of empathy towards humans had started to decline, bit by bit. Perhaps it's her doing?

Well, not that he'll care now. Here, they're an enemy who aims at his wife and her ilk, and so must be vanquished with maximum efficiency.

He lightly steps onto the forest floor and launches himself into the air, way above the canopies.

Ellis looks on her husband's back with wistful eyes, while her head is thinking of the method the Romans used to locate and attack the elves' territory.

During the battle between the Romans and the Britons, the elves never made an appearance with the sole exception of Filvis, and even then her entire body was covered in disguise, making it impossible to pinpoint her as an elf. As a matter of fact, their only dealings with the Outside of the World was with Shirou and Filvis, and no one else, making the chance of the Romans realizing the elves' role in this battle minuscule, if not zero.

Therefore, someone must be feeding information to Anastasius, laying the blame to the elves.

The elves aren't as insular as the legends foretell, as a matter of fact. They had dealings with humankind in the past, mostly individual contracts, but never revealing themselves to the masses. There are clues for those curious adventurers (and the occasional suicidal idiots) as to how to contact the elven village, and even those are far and few in between.

The answer, unsurprisingly, is easy to deduce.

' _It's Nimue, isn't it?'_ She ponders.

Is it wise for the elves to partake in this conflict? To her, the most important thing is the quiet, peaceful life she spends with her husband. She doubts Cheryl's pride that leads to them taking an antagonistic stance towards Nimue. Alright, being baited to do someone else's bidding do strike Ellis wrong, but such a large-scale war is brewing around them, and very little divides each faction's territory.

Fighting like this alongside Imina... it brings her back to her younger days.

The day when she murdered her own brother to protect Imina.

It was painful beyond measure, killing her own remaining blood relative. Her father had passed away, and his aides influenced her brother to make war upon humans. It all happened so fast, even the central council was unaware of it. However, considering Cheryl's father's personality, it's likely that he wouldn't lift a finger to stop the invasion.

It was fortunate only a small province was affected... or should it be called 'unfortunate'? The province wasn't particularly wealthy, but its residence spent their lives in relative peace, hunting, planting corps, breeding cattle, and so on.

It was the carefree childhood days, moments when she could spent the whole day playing in the human village with Imina and her brother. The time she spent without worry, only chasing the two boys' back while trailing some distance away, her hair blown by the wind.

All it took was a mere three days to create an insurmountable rift between them.

Did she regret it? Not one bit.

The sound of barking dogs wakes her up from her memories, calling her back to work.

' _Ah, trained hounds this time? Truly, these Romans are quite ingenious...'_

That is as far as a compliment she'll give those who'll harm her husband.

Right before she drowns them in their own blood, of course.

* * *

"Uwah... this carriage is niiiiccceeeee..." Gareth squeals, throwing herself into the luxurious couch and taking a half-laying down position.

Indeed, for a rudimentary-shaped wooden-wheeled horse-pulled carriage, barely any imperfections on the road is transmitted into the cabin, leaving a very comfortable ride. For Gareth, it's beginning to lull her to sleep as they travel full-speed into the sunrise after a night camping in the wild.

Cecilia smiles at her colleague's childish antics, and if it's only the two of them, she may have joined her, but the other couch is occupied by Filvis, her claimed half-sister. Her legs won't fit, of course, if she lays sideways across the couch like Gareth is doing now.

"Ahem."

At Filvis's warning cough, Gareth straightens herself back up, smoothing her hair that was tussled about earlier due to her antics.

"Eh?" Filvis tilts her head, faking a confused expression. "What are you doing? I just have something stuck in my throat."

Gareth's cheeks reddens with a lovely blush. Of course, now that she's sitting properly, she can't lay back down again due to courtesy, thus she's feeling embarrassed.

"Miss Filvis... er, Sister, please stop teasing her," Cecilia chides, correcting her way of address mid-sentence.

Snickering, the black-haired elf says, "That's your own fault, Gareth. Remember, despite this mission's lower importance than usual, it's still full of dangers and tribulations. Keep your guard up, even when you're resting or fooling around."

Gareth lowers her head in shame, admitting, "I'm sorry, Miss Filvis..."

"It's good that you understand," Filvis replies, nodding. Her mood has improved since Cecilia has begun calling her 'sister', so these little transgressions can pass. Plus, Shirou isn't here with his near-constant teasing and sarcasm, so her mind can stay calm and collected.

"Now, can you continue your story, Cecilia?" Filvis asks sweetly, perhaps _too_ sweetly, as both Cecilia and Gareth reel back slighlty at her insistence. "I'd love to hear about your life until now."

"W-Well, it's not all that bad really. In regard of you leaving me in the Alcott House's doorstep... I don't consider it to be neglectful, so don't worry, Big Sister." She pauses after seeing Filvis's pained expression, but continues soon after, "Spending my early years there taught me many wonderful things. Mrs. Alcott was kind and attentive, but also fair and strict. The me today is shaped by her teaching, and hopefully there's little wrong in me!" She laughs lightly.

"Still, I could've done better..." Filvis bitterly smiles, touching Cecilia's palm in apology and missing her sister's uncomfortable expression to being held. "I panicked after what I've done... and nothing I could do can redeem myself for killing our mother."

"Before you ask for forgiveness, know that I've never blamed you," Cecilia reveals. "My life at the Alcott House may be... sparingly equipped, but I was satisfied. And, after hearing what he's like from you, maybe it's better for me to be not raised by him."

Raising a finger, she adds, "Also... why did you say you killed her? The bandits did, and what you did was avenge her... and protect me." Cecilia flashes a quick smile, saying, "I don't want to hear this nonsense of 'it's my fault' or 'if I was better'. It happened, and what it made us now... we should just accept it and move on, alright?"

Unable to bear the heavy topic of conversation in silence, Gareth pips up, "Well, aren't you being too disconnected from your family? Really, Miss Filvis is feeling very bad for not living up to her filial responsibility, Cecilia. Don't use that dismissive tone to answer."

Shrugging her shoulders, Cecilia replies, "Pardon me if I sound rude, but I _am_ disconnected from them. For me, family is my caretaker at the Alcott House, the young kids, Master Mordred and Grandmaster Shirou, and these last few days, Big Sister Filvis. Hearing the death of a random stranger I have no recollection of, though sad, is no different than hearing a faraway village being ransacked and its inhabitants slaughtered. Stomach-clenching, yes, but remote nonetheless."

She turns to her elder sister, bowing. "If I hurt your feelings, I'm sorry, Sister."

Filvis can only make a complicated face, not knowing whether to scold her younger sister or console her for not doing anything really unusual.

"Ah, e-er... I don't really know how to react to that..." the elf sheepishly says. "To me, family is important, especially my late mother... Hearing you dismiss your own like that makes me angry..."

"I'm ready if you want to slap me."

"No! Not like that!" Filvis immediately declines. "It's... my own insecurities, not because of you, Little Sister. Do not think I'm that sort of person!"

Gareth snickers, covering her mouth with her dainty hand.

"I would've guessed otherwise, Miss Filvis."

"Do you wish to die, brat?"

She instantly wilts under the elf's glare.

Looking for a way out, she awkwardly addresses Cecilia in front of her, asking, "A-Ah! C-Come to think of it, did you receive an invitation to the ball a few weeks ago, Cecilia? Hm?"

"Ball? Oh!" Clapping her hand once, Cecilia answers, "I think Sir Gawain mentioned it once, but I never thought much of it. I mean, look at me! I'm not much of a dancer, am I? Ehehe..."

Cecilia giggles, eliciting a groan of frustration from Gareth.

' _Elder Brother has his work cut out for him...'_

"No, I think you'll do fine! Camelot has many accomplished dance teachers, and you need to at least know the basics if you want to stay at Lady Mordred's, you know? I hated it too, but the ball has some use to it, even though I loathe the fake smiles and politics."

Nodding sagely, Filvis adds, "This is why I distanced myself from human contact. Apart from some exceptional cases, most of them are just trashes with good looks and empty brains. I'm beginning to think the hardliner elves' faction has some merit after seeing those fools yapping about."

"Aren't those the ones you killed back then?" Gareth asks. "I don't really want to continue along that storyline, though... Too gloomy!"

"Ah, yes," Filvis admits her mistake. "Pardon me. It's just a figure of speech. Thankfully, the current leader has mostly eschewed that view, although she's working me quite hard now as a recompense of my crime."

Sitting up straighter, Cecilia asks, interested, "This is the first time I've heard of that! How cruel... She enslaved you for that...?!"

Filvis grimly nods.

"It's not as bad to warrant the word 'slave', Little Sister... but I do have to work with that damned grandmaster of yours, so it's _nearly_ as bad."

Giggling, Cecilia rebukes Filvis's opinion, "He's not that bad!"

"He hits women pretty hard, though," Gareth cuts.

"Isn't that your own fault? Don't be sad because you're weak, little girl. Use it as fuel to grow stronger," Filvis chides, indirectly defending Shirou. "I have to admit, it's vexing to see that man's power and skills. I'll beat him next time we meet."

"I think Master will have something to say about that," Cecilia says, smiling. "Although I'm intrigued of that match."

"Anyway! Back to the dance topic!" Gareth forcefully interrupts. "Elder Brother rarely invites women out, you know? At the very least, you could've tried going with him, Cecilia." Putting up a finger near the other girl's nose, she claims, "There's going to be one a few days after we're scheduled to return, so make sure you attend! I'll coach you for the dance part!"

"Alright, alright, I'll try," Cecilia replies, taken aback. "But I think your brother has better options, no? He just asked me out of courtesy, surely!"

This time, even Filvis is massaging the bridge of her nose with frustration at her sister's apparent cluelessness.

Putting one hand on her shoulder, Filvis says, "Just go. Have fun for a few minutes, don't care too much about the formalities, alright?"

Seeing her sister being so insistent, Cecilia finally relents and agrees.

* * *

' _Who am I?'_

It may sound like a cliché question, but it's one that Galahad has never had an answer to.

When he was born, unlike most babies, he remembered clearly every second since that moment he emerges from her mother's womb. The faces of the relieved midwives; the sweaty, pained face of his mother; the dark, secluded room completely unsuited for a princess to give birth to; the shock on everyone's faces as a bright light engulfs them and takes him away... Those memories are firmly attached inside his head.

He doesn't even know whether his real mother is still alive or not.

Meeting his father... was an occasion filled with mixed feelings. Under the tutelage of the not-woman called Nimue, the general knowledge of this world, including his family, has been etched into his brain to shorten the learning process after she did... _nearly horrible_ things to him. Of course, as a child, every new sensation was a frightening endeavor, a step into the unknown. Pain was treated like a new flavor of food to play with, along with other physical and emotional sensation.

It was a result of this that he managed to felt pity, not hatred, towards his father.

A normal child would've experienced the latter. How would one feel to the one man who abandoned his beloved mother when all she has done was to love him with all her heart? She was innocent, never intending to fool him into thinking she wasn't who he thought she was. Nimue orchestrated all that with full knowledge of Lancelot's personality, the perfect knight he has always been. A man full of honor and integrity, shining so brightly that it burnt those who couldn't shine at the same level as him.

Those like him and his mother.

The weather has gone awry again as he mulls, typical of the British Isles.

The first drops of rain splash against an invisible spherical barrier a feet from his skin, intentionally or not. His control over the Holy Grail shards inside him is still incomplete, but good enough for mundane tasks like this.

He recalled the first time he met Lancelot. A broken, disheveled man deprived of everything he has ever fought for. He didn't have love, he didn't have family, he didn't have a master to swing his sword and stake his life for, he didn't have the ideal of a knight he has strived towards his entire life.

Empty. Pathetic. Mad.

Galahad saw those tiny moments with impeccable accuracy. Those days when Lancelot's sanity was shaved little by little with every deployment from Nimue, who held his soul in such firm grip he's surprised it hasn't been destroyed yet. The Black Knight was just a husk of void fighting like a rabid dog, crazy with the cries of redemption.

But he wouldn't give it to his father. No way.

In a way, it was a tribute to his mother, and an act of mercy upon Lancelot. The knowledge Nimue gave him included how the elder knight reacted when Arthur Pendragon forgave him for his transgressions, of his betrayal and adultery. The feeling of guilt tore him apart, driving him insane all the same. This way, there's no need of His Majesty to burden his mind with the responsibility of Lancelot's mind.

Galahad would take care of it all.

This was his resolve. At the very end, he'd stain his own blade like his father did, falling into the same pitfall as his father did, and plead clemency for his mother and her family who was toyed by the whims of the Lady of the Lake.

At the very end, Lancelot shall be executed by his own son.

That is Galahad's challenge to their fate.

\- Come.

First, though, he needs to heed the siren songs that tug his heart to this particular location.

Ever since he was defeated, the shards has become agitated for some reason. A few days spent thinking on it yielded one word: 'resonance'. There are things inside of him that was... _added_ after he was conceived, something alien, and it's matching its frequencies with its mother source. There were words thrown about, but one phrase was uttered from Nimue's mouth that stuck with him.

The Holy Grail.

He knew he wasn't normal. No normal human child could grow to its teens in less than two years. By way of inductive reasoning, he concluded some parts of the Holy Grail was used to 'create' this current him. It was the source of his strange power back then in the forest battle, the one which protected him against the combined might of two of the Knights of the Round Table and a talented blonde girl.

It did nothing against that red-haired man, though.

He felt a childish sense of competitiveness as he recalled his crushing loss. He was inexperienced, yes, but at the very least, he should be able to last _one_ proper exchange, no? Instead, an off-handed blow completely crippled him, leaving him unable to even stay conscious until the next day.

Then, the voice speaks to him.

\- I am waiting, my son.

He feels anger bubbling within him at the fake female voice that impersonates his mother's tone. As short of time as he spent with her, he still remembers vividly the underlying tone and passion his mother used as she spoke to his form as a baby for the first time. This voice... this _thing_... dares to sully that memory from him?

' _Oh, just you wait...!'_

But is it in the wrong? He was irritated in it calling him its 'son', but isn't that partially true? He was born from the efforts of two women: his birth mother, Elaine, and Nimue, his teacher-cum-parent. Is it wrong denying his heritage when he's desperate to know more about himself and his place in this world?

' _Like I care.'_

That was why he escaped from that forest after he regained consciousness, away from the influence of Nimue and Scáthach. To reach for his desires alone, unsullied by their commands and snide remarks, both of which controlled him far too easily. Yes, he is naive, but his accelerated growth of mind forces him to swallow these negatives and turns it into a hard lesson learned.

\- Come. Come. Come.

The Holy Grail shards within him are reacting to it, attracted by some sort of invisible pull. It felt like the whisperings of the devil the Church from Rome preaches, but to him, it was the sound of an annoying fly that will be smacked flat.

\- Come closer. Come here. Come now. Come hither. Come. Come. Come Come Come Come Come Come Come Come Come Come Come Come Come!

Uncaring of the rain, he uses a small amount of Od to run faster with Reinforcement. Lacking experience with this type of Magecraft, or of life in general, he proceeds swiftly but cautiously, watching where he puts his foot in this slippery, muddy, and watery terrain. He can't afford a mishap, even though it won't injure him, because time is of the essence.

His mother is waiting.

* * *

Away from the hustle and bustle of inter-cultural politics, Cheryl prays silently, kneeling with serenity in a special room built for her own use.

The pseudo-sunlight glows through the frosty glass, giving the room a soft, warm glow under the supposed-noon light. Astronomically speaking, there's no way the sun can bathe the Reverse Side of the World the same way it does for the Outside because it's located in a separate dimensions. Each region on this side even has its own astrological phenomena suited to its ruler's whims and personality. It can be an area of eternal night with multiple-colored moons, a cloudless bright blue sky over a marine paradise, or an ethereal heaven filled with a myriad of comets, hanging planets, and floating islands.

For her, being brought up close to human settlements from an early age, the elven forest has a similar climate to the Outside of the World, only with less rain. As a matter of fact, the area was reworked when she and the kids from her generation took over from their predecessors, making it closer to the climate from the human's side. Some of the remaining elders lament the loss of the elves' 'purity', but she considers them to be old-fashioned and stagnant.

Her husband loved this sky when he was alive.

They were engaged from childhood, mediated by her grandfather, the previous head of the elves. A hard-nosed, brutal man, he was caring and soft to his granddaughter to an almost sickening degree. It was a surprise he got along so well with Cheryl's then-fiancée, joking and laughing together like old friends. Come to think of it, her then-fiancée had a strangely old-fashioned mannerisms and hobbies, similar to her grandfather, despite his young age.

In any case, for her who was raised in isolation, no parents, no caretakers, no friends, the two males closest to her were a welcome constant. After she came of age, her grandfather let the two of them to leave on a journey in pretext of developing their body and mind.

In fact, it was only so they couldn't see him pass away in agony, shamelessly writhing about like an insect completely unbecoming of a man of his stature.

After she lost her parental figure, the next one to fo was her beloved husband, idiotically dying after a duel infused with pride on the line. There was nothing she could do other than seeing him and his opponent land each of their finishing blows, taking them both out.

"Haa..."

A tired sigh escapes from her mouth as she leaves her kneeling position, her diminutive body light and springy even after several hours staying in one place.

There is no need to mull over the past. Her late grandfather and husband were flighty people, living carefreely without regard of others, though in different manner. She herself also took onto their personalities, so now she prioritizes on doing things that interests her, with some restrain so that Ellis won't complain too much.

The middle ground between her grandfather's ruthlessness and dislike for human and her husband's loose and happy-go-lucky towards everything is like a tightrope, but one she's become an expert in navigating.

"Not eating breakfast?"

"Uwa!"

The sudden voice calling out to her causes her to jump into the air.

Rubbing her pitifully-sized chest, Cheryl shouts back, "D-Don't do that! You meanie, Sumiko!"

Smiling softly like how a mother would, the kimono-clad woman replies, "Can't you appreciate my worry at the very least?"

Stomping her feet childishly, she retorts, "Isn't that decades too late for you to worry? I could use it _aaaaaalllllllllllll_ those years ago! Go away!"

Sighing, Sumiko raps the door sill and leaves the younger girl alone, but not before saying, "Your favorite dishes are going to get cold, so hurry up. Don't make your retainers worry about your health, if you don't want me to."

She wals away without waiting for a reply, her mind saddened by Cheryl's antagonistic attitude towards her.

The reason for that isn't completely incomprehensible. After the elf girl's relatives all passed away, the elven council became a complete chaotic mess, with the elder elves all vying for control of the tribes. It never degenerated to physical backstabbing and actual murder, but the political situation between the elven tribes wasn't healthy at all. All sides were glaring at each other, thinking of ways to attack and defend from their neighbors, suspecting every single movement.

It was comical, in her point of view, how much could change after so little time.

In the old days, the elven tribes were joined together by a group of representatives from each tribe, creating a council. The leader of the council, effectively the leader of the entire elven people, was chosen based on both combat ability and political acumen. The culture of the elves were dictated by the representatives, mostly from the same generation each time, thus they evolved little by little over the eras, matching the requirements of the then-current age.

What remained little unchanged was the general dislike of the things from the Outside of the World. After the downfall of the Age of the Gods and the split between the two dimensions of the World, the elves lost their trust and interest of those on the other side. Depending on the direction the council took, this dislike could range from outright hatred and bloodshed to indifferent and arrogant shrugs.

However, in this Age of Heroes, when most of the second generation of Heroic Spirits were born and raised, the trend was shifting more towards the latter, culminating in Cheryl's current leadership.

Her grandfather was a hardliner of the 'We Hate Humans' faction. Despite his doting on his granddaughter and grandson-in-law, he was notoriously strict against outsiders. Even other beings in the Reverse Side of the World weren't allowed to roam freely in elven territory, much less humans. Regular humans used short-term and clandestine contracts to speak and request help from the elves, and most of them were done without Cheryl's grandfather's knowledge by freelancers.

After his death, there was a lull in activities as the elders in the council engaged in a stand-off, along with their represented tribes. With Cheryl's husband meeting the same fate several months later, she was truly alone in this world.

Being a mother herself, Sumiko couldn't bear looking at a child that young having to fend off the pressure of the council by herself.

Cheryl had the combat ability necessary to succeed her grandfather. By his own admission, he wasn't particularly talented, but prided himself in his hard work and perseverance. Cheryl, though, was the complete opposite, summed up in one word: 'genius'.

Having mastered everything her grandfather has created, what she needed the most was true battle experience, as well as life lessons only time could teach. However, her potential development was stunted by both men's death, leaving her an unripe bud, doomed to rot into nothingness before it could bloom.

That's why, in accordance to her grandfather's wishes, she took Cheryl under her wing. There was nothing to criticize in terms of her fighting ability and general intelligence, but her ability to deal with the subtleties of people was severely lacking. In the time it took the council to decide on a new, temporary leader, who was Ellis's father, Cheryl experienced a severely compressed education to prepare her to be the next leader.

Thankfully, it all went well, and she was voted (rather forcefully) to be the next leader.

Like those before her, she surrounded herself with council members of her own generation, led by Ellis as the most experienced.

The elders weren't too happy being displaced with such suddenness, but after a demonstration of the new generation's excellence, they begrudgingly relented.

After all, they lost their temporary leader being killed by his own daughter.

Sumiko smiles as she recalls the first time she met Ellis. Outwardly, she was a sweet, innocent young girl with an unusual level of sensuality in her appearance. With her petite height but voluptuous chest and waist, she was the prime candidate for marriage among the younger elven males. However, despite the overwhelming amount of superior candidates, she chose Imina, a human, as her husband, causing a ruckus among the elves.

She was famed to favor humans since an early age, but no one expected her to actually marry a human being. There were some cases in the past when these cross-race marriage happened, but those were elves with relatively low standings among the tribe. After marriage, some of them were even considered social outcasts for muddying the 'pure' elven blood with outsiders, though at the surface it never escalated to anything more than verbal slanders.

Her father, a stalwart of Cheryl's grandfather's view, was predictably enraged.

He led a small elite force and began to invade the human world, starting with Imina's village.

And Ellis snapped, unleashing her power, which rivalled Cheryl's, to stab her father and his retainers in the back when they least expected it, including her own brother.

It was a sad love story, a lesson for the next generation Sumiko hopes they'll take to heart. After all, she, too, married into a human family and birthed three healthy sons as an Aonyōbō.

The pitter-patter of Cheryl's almost imperceptible footsteps takes her out of her recollection as a white blur speeds past her into the dining area, faster than Sumiko's own eyes can detect.

Smiling, she thinks, _'After all these years, still such a child...'_


	34. Tight Situation

**Hello, everyone! Welcome to (hopefully) spring season around the world, although it's a bit early and still with too much rain. I had a blast watching the Dakar Rally and Australian Open, and massive props to the champions across all classes (especially you, Federer!). What a way to start the sporting season (those who follows the calendar instead of the school term like soccer and basketball, anyway).**

 **Before I begin answering the mailbag, does anyone have a way of watching (for free, of course) the new Heaven's Feel movie? For the life of me, I can't watch it through my usual (semi-legal) ways. If anyone has downloaded it and wants to share, I will be eternally grateful and hang your name on my figurative wall.**

 **Now, the mailbag:**

 **EVA-Saiyajin: Actually, the only major differentiation between 'bow' and 'curtsy' in regards to gender only happened around 17th century. Before that, the motions similar enough for the two words to be interchangeable. Good point, though. I initially noticed the mistake a few chapters in, but after some research, decided to keep it. Thanks for the comment!**

 **: Thanks for the update on "Princess Lover". Regarding the 'seed', this will stay within the boundaries FFn demanded, despite my most fervent wishes, so there'll be no explicit sex here.**

 **DPSS: Really? I'm not sure where you got that information from; can you share it with me? Initially, I couldn't confirm your point, so I used it in the story anyway. Please PM me for further explanation.**

 **The Rupture: Thanks for your support. Unfortunately, currently, I don't have the confidence to write harem stories. I don't want to be just a cheap, sex-filled story filled with ridiculous male imaginations regarding actual relationships. Perhaps in the next project, your hope will come true! I hope you'll stay with me until then, but in this story, Shirou won't have any real romance with anyone other than Mordred.**

 **With that over, I also want to thank those unheralded people usually unmentioned in these Author's Notes: the anonymous commenters who reviewed my story and gave out pointers, both good and bad. Even though your comments may not receive a response, it's your words which spurned me, and I bet many of my fellow writers, to continue to type and think and engage in the community. Thank you very much, both formally and informally.**

 **Now, enjoy the story! Let me know what you think of it in the comments section. Don't forget to follow and favorite!**

* * *

\- Drip. Drip. Drip.

A breath of refreshing, cold morning air enters my lungs, moist with intermittent rain. The chill is pleasant, after a sweaty and hot night on the bed with Mordred who was as aggressively clingy as usual. This time I managed to satisfy her enough to make her miss the morning training, which is great, but I miss her presence beside me already after a few hours.

\- Drip. Drip. Drip.

The stray water droplet hits my sword, this time the tachi Mikazuki Munechika. Instead of letting it splash against the beautifully-tempered surface pattern, I loosen my body and moves my arms in a slow, deliberate circular motion, increase my concentration to the limit, and feel the weight of the water droplet. Following and redirecting its trajectory so it stays in a circular sphere, I follow my arms' movement with my upper torse, hips, and legs, performing a delicate circular dance based on Taijiquan and Taijijian before one final downwards diagonal stroke lets the water droplet fall gently to the ground, still in its original spherical shape.

"Uwa..." Mordred's sound of amazement is heard from behind, but it fails to breach my concentration.

I carefully let one steaming breath out, having manipulated my Od alongside my body to ensure my muscular movement has no lag or jerkiness for the practice earlier.

Turning my head slightly and smiling, I say, "You're late, sleepyhead."

"Mou!" Running up to me with Clarent on her hips, she lightly slaps my shoulder. "It's your fault that you're so amazing last night!" Blushing, she continues in a smaller voice, "Um... s-so amazingly good... H-How about t-tonight after dinner...?" She asks with an upturned pair of eyes.

Rubbing her head, I smile as she twists her body seductively in pleasure.

"Let's finish morning training first, shall we?"

"O-Oh! Are you going to teach me that awesome technique?" Mordred pips up, excited at my new swordsmanship.

Laughing, I reply, "Ahahaha! No, now's not the time, for two reasons. One, it'll make your current style redundant, because it doesn't suit you." I can see her pouting at my excuse, but I keep on explaining to her, "You have the talent to master it, but you'd have to completely break down your own style to do so, and we don't have that luxury now."

"Muu..." she groans, asking, "what's the second reason?"

Shrugging my shoulders, I say, "I haven't fully mastered it yet. Or, more precisely, unlike you, my musculature needs time to adjust to fully optimize that technique."

"Even with Unlimited Blade Works?" Mordred asks, surprised at my inability to nail the style first time asking.

"Even with that," I concur.

Taking some distance away from her, I ready my blade.

"Therefore, I need a sparring partner to perfect it," I claim, smirking. "Get ready, dear."

Grinning, she replies energetically, "You don't need to tell me twice!"

Her Mana Burst explodes, scattering the ambient rain and dew spherically away from her body. Even with the slippery and uneven footing, her movements are crisper and sharper than before, a sign she's been training hard even without my presence.

As always, her flexible body swings her sword at unnatural, wild angles at ridiculous speeds. Between the slashes come the punches and kicks, short and powerful, mixing the strange curves of Clarent with precise, pin-point cannon-like strikes. However, what I love from her most of all... is that she does all this while laughing and smiling, a far cry from her destined original self who's filled with resentment and anger.

Oops, I have to get serious real soon.

Normally, Taijijian is used with Chinese long swords, which are thin, light, and flexible, only slightly wider than Western rapiers. I'm trying to check whether its techniques are also applicable to the flowing lines of a katana, or in this case, the longer tachi. It's hard to adjust the mostly one-handed techniques from China to the two-handed Japanese sword, but it only requires a change in footwork and center of gravity.

Under Mordred's onslaught, which is like a meteor shower, Mikazuki Munechika glides along each attack, redirecting them slightly to the side and allowing me space to manouver. Its curved edge easily slides off Clarent's sharp, heavy edge, as I use flicks of my wrist and waist to fire off an instant counter as soon as both blades hit each other.

In hindsight, my current experimental form is similar to that phantom of Sasaki Kojirou the original Emiya Shirou encountered, graceful and fast, but with impenetrable defense in a one-on-one sword duel. Mikazuki Munechika's longer reach requires Mordred to stagger her movements awkwardly, disrupting her rhythm to avoid my accurate slashes and thrusts, unable to close the gap.

Avoiding a horizontal slash to her neck, she bends her upper body backwards. Using that falling momentum, she lets her body to drop parallel to the ground, and uses her free left hand as a pivot to launch an upwards kick to my wrist from her position near the ground. I simply lets out a short forward kick to block it, but the weak response I receive in return warns me of a trap, and sure enough, she suddenly drops her kicking foot and switches her weight onto it, spinning close to the ground and unleashing a sweep to my legs.

I change my stance to deal with the low attack, using Mikazuki Munechika to sweep the ground in various gentle arcs. However, Mordred isn't deterred, and sensing that a Japanese sword's main weak point is attacks to the legs or near the ground, advances while keeping herself crouched near the wet earth.

It's a smart tactic, very smart. Precisely because of its length, my sword lacks maneuverability in close quarters, and East Asian swordsmanship has little techniques to deal with leg strikes. Mordred can use her powerful muscles, aided with Mana Burst, to move quickly in a near-crouch position, mercilessly hacking at my legs.

However, how can I claim to be her master if I can fall to such tricks?

\- [Sword Burst]

I swing my tachi in an upwards arc _through_ the ground, cleaving it open smoothly directly towards Mordred's unguarded torso. She widens her eyes in surprise, before jerking her body to one side and rolling away from my strike.

"H-Hey! That's cheating!" She protests.

I simply chides her, "What did I always tell you?"

"Ugh..." she groans. "Yes, yes... 'Always be prepared' and 'Pragmatism is king', right? How many times has it been...?"

"Far more than ideal."

"Alright, alright! Take this!"

Mordred jumps high into the air, then rotates and strikes downwards with all her power, combining her centrifugal force and gravitational force as she falls. Vermillion magic energy accumulates alongside Clarent, a sign that she's going all out due to frustration.

I click my tongue.

' _Tsk, this girl...!'_

\- Break.

Mikazuki Munechika shines gently, a green glow illuminating its finely tempered side pattern like a crescent moon, befitting its name. I sheathe the ridiculously long sword and take an Iaido stance.

Normally, it's practically impossible to use Iaido with swords longer than the average katana, which is about 2 feet. There's simply not enough rotation angle in a normal human's body, specifically its waist and back, to fully draw out longer swords, especially Mikazuki Munechika which is only slightly less than 3 feet in length.

However, none of the past Iai masters can use a Broken Phantasm.

Using the initial breaking phase, a small amount of explosive energy is released before the sword's full strength can be released beyond its limits, ending in the sword being shattered to pieces. It's a logic similar to a modern two-stage rocket, in which the preliminary propeller will ignite first, before the main boost kicks in and launches the rocket at full speed.

Inside its sheath, a part of the beautiful blade cracks, ejecting a loud snapping sound and a great amount of magic energy.

Then, using my fully Reinforced body and Sword Burst, Mikazuki Munechika is unleashed from its confines.

A collision between a blood-red light and a warm, green glow envelops the surroundings of Camelot silently, without disturbing even the dead branches on the old trees.

"I thought you lost control for a second there, Mordred," I sigh, walking over to her and pinching her cheeks. "Be more careful next time, alright?"

"Yesh..." she nods awkwardly as her cheeks are still pinched between my fingers. "Id hwurtz..."

Rubbing her reddened cheeks, she glares at me and stomps her feet. "Don't treat me like a child."

"Sorry, sorry," I say, patting her head. "Force of habit."

I let go of Mikazuki Munechika's broken blade as it disintegrates into pieces, its job done. Sulking, Mordred sheathes Clarent as well, annoyed at not being able to beat me once again. However, her control over her powers is improving greatly, as evident in the lack of destruction around us. She measured Mikazuki Munechika's power during our exchange, and only unleashes Clarent's power in an appropriate amount _just_ to beat it, which was neutralized by my use of Broken Phantasm. It's my mistake to assume she was the same as her old, reckless self, which I'll gladly admit.

The weather has improved greatly as the sun finally shows its full face, drying off the considerable amount of moisture in the air and ground. Each dew and raindrop beautifully captures a glint of yellow sunrise in them, making the two of us momentarily silent to appreciate their beauty. In this solitary world of accelerated thoughts and enhanced senses, it's a privilege allowed only to Mordred and me, as the water droplets around us appears to breathe in and out in accordance to nature's laws.

The sound of wet footsteps announces Altria's arrival, breaking us out of our little moment.

"How vigorous already... in the morning," Altria remarks, her sentence cut in half by a yawn. Dressed in simple clothing with leather pants and fiber shirt, she looks like Mordred's more masculine self, more like a squire than a king. Did she dress this way when she was young, under the tutelage of Merlin, Kay, and her uncle?

A memory of a young, effeminate-looking boy pulling out a gilded sword out of a stone flashes through my mind, triggered by Altria's humble way of dressing.

All of this thought is processed through as quickly as possible to avoid Mordred being jealous at me for staring at another woman for too long, even her own father.

"Your Majesty," I acknowledge.

She waves her hand to dismiss my courtesy, lightly berating me, "I know this is not official, but at the very least, please address me like how you would a family member." Giving a meaningful look to Mordred, she proceeds to tag-team me, saying, "Isn't that right, Mordred?"

My beloved twitches like a rabbit caught in front of a wolf, and subsequently blushes and begins to wave her arms about.

"A-Ah...! No, I mean... i-it's good and all... Very awkward right now, Father!" She manages to stutter out, once again noncommittal to our future relationship.

Well, not that I mind. I still have stuff to do before thinking about marriage yet.

Chuckling at her antics, Altria put one hand on her hips near her sheathed practice sword.

"I understand. Then, can I have a practice match in return?"

' _Er... those eyes aren't saying 'practice', Altria...'_

It seems she's still sour over her loss to me a few days ago in front of the knights and retainers. It's odd for a woman of her stature that she chooses this place, devoid of any eyewitness, to avenge her honor, but it seems she cares very little for her swordsmanship's judgement as a king.

Oh, no. The one standing before us now is a swordsman, pure and simple.

Mordred gives me the exact same hungry look, practically wagging her imaginary puppy tail back and forth, eager to be let loose.

Relenting, I say while sighing, "Hand me Clarent."

She cheerfully unclasps her sword and takes a Traced practice sword from my other hand, swinging it a few times to check its balance. As always, it's perfect due to my extensive knowledge of her habits and likes, and the practice match between 'father' and 'son' begins.

Of course, when I say 'practice sword', it isn't the bamboo ones the original Emiya Shirou used in his dojo at home, or a wooden fake katana novice Japanese swordsman practiced with. It's a real, Western metal longsword, but with the edges sufficiently dulled to prevent serious injuries.

With these two, I fear even that step won't prevent any deaths if they both go all out.

Hopefully, they'll take this as easily as a family bonding time...

"Begin!"

* * *

Altria lets out a sigh full of content as she wipes her body with a cold towel.

"Fuu... I wished I could spar against your fiancee, Mordred," she grumbles half-heartedly. "But I need to work even harder to beat you first."

The younger Pendragon smirks from inside the hot water tub, saying, "That's if you didn't get surpassed by me first, Father."

The duel went well, in a sense that they both learned a tremendous deal from it as well as exercising their bodies. It's hard to imagine that these delicate women possess such tremendous strength, enough to crush a boulder bare-handed, with their spindly arms and soft curves without a trace of hard muscle. After several minutes, Shirou called time as the adjudicator as Camelot began to wake up from its slumber.

Their styles predictably contrasted each other. Altria favored her sure-footed stance, delivering precise, heavy blows without compromising on swing speed combined with a sturdy defense. Mordred moved her body much more freely, sometimes using moves that couldn't be called swordsmanship, as long as it's the most 'effective' attack, flexibly interchanging between attack and defense, her sword tracing natural lines through the air.

At first, Mordred started rather haphazardly, wildly attacking any gaps and powering through some that clearly weren't gaps without regard of it being a trap or not, a trait which Altria quickly took advantage of. However, it soon dawned on her that Mordred deliberately took on this style to learn her own attacking pattern, and as soon as her counterattack was stopped, Mordred was already able to adjust her blows and footwork. The younger blonde dances between Altria's slashes and returning said slashes from ridiculous angles, sometimes from _laying down on the ground_ , forcing Altria to back off during the dual exchange.

Much of the spar then unfolded in the same manner. Mordred was skilled in creating these opportunities to exchange, letting Altria the slightest opening at a non-fatal area to pounce on her mid-swing across a similarly small gap, but a far more lethal one. However, when Mordred started her second and third swing in the middle of a combination, Altria used her experience to limit Mordred's space, taking away footings that the daughter could use to further press her advantage.

It resulted in a stalemate, with neither could score more than niggling scratches. As they both had their formal duties, more so with Altria than Mordred, they decided to bathe together. Well, it's more likely that Altria dragged her daughter to the central bathhouse to dress her up... 'appropriately', as she said. Knowing her father's tendencies, Mordred didn't put up too much of a fight, but she still sulked at not being allowed to spend more time with Shirou and dress however she wanted.

As she dips her lower body onto the hot stone tub, Altria inquires, "I am curious how strong Shirou really is."

Surprisingly, Mordred's reply is even shorter.

"I don't know."

Widening her eyes in shock, Altria asks, "Really? Even after all this time?"

"Umu," Mordred nods. "He never had the need to go all-out, even if I did. I think that time in the forest against Scáthach was one of the few times he used that spell of his, but even that wasn't full power, I'm sure."

"Spell... hmm... That 'bone of my sword' aria?"

"Yes."

Stretching her legs in the bath, several popping sounds crack through the bathroom from Altria's body.

"How ridiculous. That amount of power shouldn't be held by one person alone."

Mordred smiles, but her eyes are full of flames of passion. "He's not alone, Father."

"Haa..." Exhaling a tired sigh, Altria returns her daughter's smile. "I assume you will be there beside him, until the end of time?"

"Yup!"

"How romantic," she says lightly.

\- Splash. Splosh.

Rising from the tub, she reaches out for a towel at her side, wiping her body dry.

"Well, I shall take my leave. Take care of not spending too long in here, Mordred, even though it feels nice."

Mordred fake-pouts. "So soon, Father? Why not enjoy it a bit more?"

She gets a sly grin in response of her question.

"Well, because of your antics, I have an international meeting to attend. So, thank you very much, my dear daughter."

"Muu... that doesn't sound like a compliment...!"

With a small laugh, Altria leaves Mordred alone to soak in the heat.

* * *

I whistle in admiration at Merlin's setup in the private conference room.

It is based on the modern idea of teleconference, when cutting-edge technology allows world leaders to communicate instantly, in real time, with minimal lag. The thing is, I never mentioned this stuff to him or even said something that might inspire him to do this. As a matter of fact, now that I think of it, I never talked much with him, no?

Either he had a flash of genius, which wasn't unlikely, or his Clairvoyance inspired him.

"Impressed?" The white-haired man asks.

I nod. "Very much. What inspired you to make this?"

"Necessity, I think," he admits. "I realized that this type of long distance communication for our emperors wasn't only good for our situation, it's turning vital. I wanted to use Clairvoyance for inspiration, but thanks to you, it went haywire, so I had to... improvise."

"Oh? Why is it because of me?" I question with one eyebrow raised.

He smirks.

"Please don't assume I'm like those foolish students of mine, or your run-of-the-mill magi. The presence of a Heroic Vessel, no matter how well-hidden, is as blinding as viewing the sun up close."

\- Fou!

As he speaks, an adorable little white head full of fur pops out from his pocket, squealing cutely.

I instantly go battle-ready, Unlimited Blade Works primed to be summoned, all to kill this little thing.

\- Fou! Fou!

In mutual apathy, it growls, revealing its tiny, dainty teeth and miniature jaw.

Our exchange goes unnoticed to this magus, who keeps on churning out explanation.

"Ah, going back to the topic, I simply used the common viewing glass orb, took its basic principles, and multiplied its dimension to accomodate all four: the three physical dimensions plus time." Droning on, he continues, "Of course, the challenge is precisely that: to accomodate images and sounds through that four dimensions. I won't disclose the precise formula, as is the norm, but..."

His words flies straight over my head as I glare at Primate Murder, and it glares back at me.

' _Wanna fight?'_

The two of us are conceptually incompatible, even more so than the future seven Counter Guardians that'll be chosen to chain it for the next few centuries. I am a being sent to ensure humanity's survival at all cost, while it prioritizes killing humanity for Gaia's survival at all cost. Granted, I mostly deal among humans to prevent them from ending themselves, but our purposes are still opposites.

\- Fou!

With a huff, it points its dainty snout away and jumps off from Merlin's pocket, strutting off. I silently tracks its movements with my Eyes, but it doesn't seem intend to do anything to disrupt me.

In the background, Merlin is still talking.

"Then, the next step is to gain the acknowledgement and compromise from the other kingdoms' leaders. We're targeting the Romans to try and put an end to this stupid war, as well as asking for compensation, plus the tribal leaders in our fores-" He frowns, asking me, "Oi, are you listening?"

"No."

"G-Guh!" He seems hurt at my honest assessment.

I wave one of my hands at him, walking away. "Sorry, I had a bit too much on my mind. Do explain it to me once again in the future. Bye."

"O-Oi! Aren't you going to witness this... this innovation?! Hey!"

I ignore him and activate my Pure Eyes to its fullest ability, plus Tracing the entire castle complex. I have to find Primate Murder before anything bad happens.

I quicken my pace, silently tracking its steps.

My mind is sharp, calculating all the reasons of why on earth it appeared here. Through history, it has only appeared to annihilate the humans that were planning something dangerous that could seriously damage the World. Was it because of me? My meddling in this era of time will actually amount to nothing, as everything I've built up until now will be destroyed by that thing?

If we fight... I don't want to imagine the results.

Will I win? Will I lose? Will we draw? Initial predictions favor the latter – an ending of mutual destruction. Our battle will literally wipe this kingdom off the planet, Avalon or not. To be honest, I've never been pushed to my maximum, and my limits are all the result of simulation. Accurate ones, but simulation nonetheless. What will happen when I reach that perceived limit? Can I draw even more strength to surpass it, a trait the original Emiya Shirou has in spades? Or will I simply fade to nothingness as the simulation proved to be too accurate?

I don't know. I don't know anything.

For now, I have to ascertain its motives.

Oh, I won't rule out it's only here to play and fool around, and our meeting was nothing more than a coincidence. Such ridiculous reasons have a surprisingly high probability in my past missions, so I'll take that into consideration.

\- Fou! Fou! Fou!

' _There it is!'_

I turn the corner as fast as I can without looking unnatural.

"Kyaaa! Aren't you cute!?"

...only to see Primate Murdred snuggling into Mordred's nape, with her petting it heavily and grooming its fluffy white fur.

Her face lits up even more when she sees me.

"Oh, Shirou!" She beams, chirping, "Can we keep it? Can we?"

Even her puppy-dog stare doesn't move me.

"It belongs to Merlin, I think, so we can't," I put up an excuse, placing the magus as the sacrificial lamb. "Besides, it's one of Gaia's agents, designed especially to combat me. I don't think we should go near it."

"O-Oh..." Her face is a mixture of surprise and disappointment.

' _Are you prioritizing it over me?! Come on, dear!'_

\- Fou...

Oh, now it looks sad.

"Haa..." I sigh.

It seems attached to Mordred, which is both good and bad. In this form, its physical instincts seem strong, acting like a normal puppy around those it trusts. If it's happy like that, then good! I don't have to factor it in much of my plans, and it'll stay out of my way if it's satisfied doing this stuff. On the opposite, if I insist on it being as far away from me as possible, it may develop negative emotions that'll make it hell-bent on preventing me on doing my job.

"Alright, fine," I relent. "But I don't want it near us during our private time, got it? You're going to have to tell it personally, because I guarantee it won't listen to me."

"Ufufufu! You hear that, cute one?! Hear that?!" She excitedly speaks, even using a tone she uses when she plays with the kids at the orphanages she visited a few months ago. "You've got to listen to him, alright? Well, I know you both don't get along, so... just don't get in each other's way, got it?"

\- Fou!

' _Well, that settles that...'_

Exhaling in relief, I say, "Well, I'm going to watch Altria's conference. You go and play with it... er, Primate Murder, alright? You can name it whatever you want, though, as long as it agrees."

Smirking, Mordred jaunts, "You said you dislike it, but don't you know an awful lot about it? What's its favorite food, then?"

"Human soul."

"W-What?!"

Nodding seriously, I continue, "I always have the tendency to find out the most about my enemies, Mordred. 'Keep your enemies closer'... and all that. However, don't sweat it too much. If it likes you, it'd keep liking you 'till the end of time. For guys like me, we'd be in an eternal fight forever. Keep that in mind."

"A-Alright..." she replies, dumbfounded.

* * *

With calm, abated breath, Galahad observes the carriage traveling underneath him. He makes sure he keeps his distance, silently traversing the forest canopy on the side of the gravel highway. One of its occupants, the elf, has excellent detection ability, so he needs to be careful not to reveal his presence.

' _What a coincidence...'_

Just a few days after their battle, here they are, traveling side-by-side to the same location. There's only one major highway to take between Camelot and Corbenic, the castle where his birth mother calls home, and as he rushed alongside it, eager to take the shortest route possible to eliminate this annoying sound in his head and check on his birth mother, a carriage appeared, carrying with it a significant amount of leaked magic energy.

He suspects the leak is deliberate, because no magi worth their salt will announce their arrival with such a crude method. It's likely a method of deterrent, because the amount of magic energy emitted is above even Nimue, in her constrained human form. Of course, he only had a glimpse of the elf during their battle in the forest before he's taken out, so all of this is mere speculation without knowing her personality.

He refocuses his mind, and paces himself not to overtake the carriage. He's pressed on time due to his youth-induced impatience, but the goal of the people inside the carriage is far too intriguing to be left alone. Are they malicious? Are they allies to him? Because this journey concerns Elaine, his mother, he decides to be careful and protective.

Unbeknownst to him, the magic energy he felt isn't a deterrent, but a detection method.

Filvis, while still conversing merrily with Gareth and Cecilia, has deployed a thin, almost imperceptible cloud of magic energy made from particles of mana, manipulated so thinly through the medium of sunlight to spread in a mile-wide sphere, encapsulating both the sky and ground. The amount of information this technique produces will render a normal human unconscious and bleeding from every orifice, but it's a testament to Filvis's maximized potential that she's able to not only use it effectively, but still has enough presence of mind left to interact with others.

The fact that Galahad can sense this technique's deployment is solely due to his connection with the Holy Grail, nothing more. Even an experienced magus won't be able to tell they're being observed, so fine is this technique. To make an example of it, it would be similar to a person detecting a minute change in the air's barometric pressure using their skin alone: practically impossible.

Inside the carriage, the space is filled with girly talks and laughter as they continue their banter from a few days ago, this time discussing their ideal marriage partner. Having been made fun of due to her obliviousness, Cecilia is now hammering her new friend, Gareth, of which man can she bring home _and_ survive meeting her elder brother.

Filvis, meanwhile, puts on an attentive face while tracking down Galahad.

' _So, this boy's still alive...'_

Last time she saw him, Shirou flattened him in a split second, her elven eyes unable to keep track of the flying body. However, she distinctly remembers the incredible magical energy output that the boy exploded with earlier from his fight with Cecilia and co., a few moments before she and Shirou arrived. Initially, she was curious on what could make the boy's Od feel so... artificial, but her mind was then taken by the need to address the incoming Roman army.

Now that she has time to think, as the carriage trundles onwards with the coachmen in front, she grows increasingly interested in Galahad's innate ability.

This detection technique of hers is inspired by that blasted man, Heroic Vessel SHIROU. He once said to her that using his Pure Eyes wasn't the be-all-and-end-all in his repertoire, and he relied on his innate detection skill as well, manifested as a sense of smell. That was odd in itself, because the majority of magi and magic users interpreted detection as a 'feel', not a 'scent', but she's digressing. In any case, she too wanted something as a preliminary threat identifier, and thus created this technique: Corona Haze.

Through it, she can tell there's... _something_ inside Galahad. That _something_ , clearly, shouldn't belong there, but what intrigues her too is the revelation she receives: this boy is an artificially-enhanced human ever since he was born.

She's not someone that'll experiment on the unborn, stillborn, and the just-born because of her curiosity or her preference as a magus, but she's familiar with the steps taken to modify a human being from a fetus, thanks to some of her former classmates under Merlin. Disgustingly, Merlin never gave even a single warning, not once, so she took matters into her own hands and crushed their research.

He never reacted to it, only responding with a casual shrug someone would do when their hopeless lottery tickets didn't work out.

From this distance, that's pretty much all she can ascertain. That _something_ is acting like some kind of energy reactor, pulsing and emitting energy to circulate through his body periodically. Is it a vital organ for him? Will he die if she destroy this _something_? Where did he get it from? Who placed it in him?

Well, if he made a move against Cecilia, she'll make sure to find out _all_ of the answers.

His movements, clearly shadowing their group, doesn't feel malicious, so she'll let him tag along. Who knows, borrowing Shirou's optimism, that he can be used as an unwilling ally? At this stage, with so little information regarding the Holy Grail, anything can happen, so she'll keep her eyes out.

"What about you, Sister? What do you think?" Cecilia asks, breaking her out of her secret mulling.

Smiling, she replies, "Well, Gareth will be a virgin forever, then~"

"NOOOOOOOOOO!"

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **M**

 **Mikazuki Munechika – Three Crescent Moons  
Rank: D (C)  
Type: Anti-Unit  
Range: 3  
Max. Targets: 2**

One of the famed Tenka-Goken, forged by the famous swordsmith Munechika. Known as one of Japan's national treasure, its smith always did things at his own pace only. As a tachi, it was designed for field use to kill horses and their riders in one stroke, but it became a ceremonial sword instead due to its beautiful crescent moon pattern. As such, it has little power beyond normal swords, but it receives a boost within Japan's borders, especially in proximity to Inari shrine. Legends claim it to be blessed by the whimsical fox deity, but it was exactly that: a whim.


	35. An Important Date

**Hey, guys! Sorry for the long update; as usual, life's a bitch. And I've been bitten by that 'laziness' bug. Sorry again.**

 **In any case, recently my activities in this site has been for beta work. So, here's the stories to check out (because they're arrogantly mine):  
Fate New Rebellion by lioncousin (my first partnership)  
A Different Destiny by Marcel M  
Deck of Heroes by greyblueflames98  
All Over Again by Krapo**

 **Now that winter's over, my favorite sport series is also starting up: motorsport. Perhaps it's apparent from previous Author's Notes, but I'm excited for the 2018 season, with all the crossovers between disciplines going on. Yeah, fuck insurance! Give the fans what they want: their heroes competing in multiple disciplines like the old days. That said, going away from motorsport: how the hell is Roger Federer still winning?! What are all the other players doing (and yes, they call themselves _professional_ players, so it's their job to beat this dude!)?! Alright, maybe that sentence is too harsh, because he's my favorite player, but come on...**

 **Mailbag time!**

 **Dragonjek: Oh, you know it...**

 **etheral-23: Well, because of my limited FGO playing time, I decided not to take too much of FGO's storyline into this fic. So, if there's any discrepancies, sorry for not sticking to the script. Please still let me know, though, so my knowledge increases with each review. Thanks for the heads up!**

 **axel4ekruz: To be honest, the similarities are a coincidence. I do know that move, but I didn't use it as inspiration. It just popped up in my head. Great when viewed again on YouTube, though!**

 **Alexana998: No, this project won't be a harem. The next one will. Regarding your request, there'll be more in the pipeline. Keep reading, and thanks for the review.**

 **talesfanjmf, coronadomontes, PasiveNox & King Draconias: I cannot thank you enough for the praise. I'm currently in dogeza as I read your reviews.**

 **coolkid0806: No, it's just a clip. The complete aria will be revealed later in the story.**

 **With that, enjoy! I'll be waiting for your comments down below.**

* * *

\- Swirl. Swirl. Swirl.

The aged white wine releases its exquisite aroma as a pair of dainty fingers moves in a circular motion. The woman doing it is lazily laying down on a soft couch covered in maroon silk, while her two female attendants standing by beside her vigilantly. Despite hailing from the same race as their master, their manners, though well-trained, still can't compete with their master's natural beauty and elegance that filled her every move, consciously or not.

Shalltear gazes at the eternal full moon hanging over her realm, a sad expression gracing her tired eyes. As a true vampire, unlike Gaia's True Ancestors, some of the 'vampire folklore' characteristics are etched onto her, such as gaining strength during phases of the moon and vulnerable to a certain kind of alchemical silver. However, as she doesn't require sleep, sometimes a strong sense of nostalgia will hit her out of nowhere and linger unpleasantly, making her more emotional than she likes.

"Wistful, aren't we?"

The gruff male voice makes one of her attendants twitch her eyebrows in displeasure, as a heavily-padded footsteps make their presence known.

Another person, androgynous in appearance, floats beside him while chiding.

"You're so insensitive, Komamura! At least start with a proper greeting, idiot!"

Clicking her tongue in annoyance, the vampire growls, "You're both noisy, bastards..."

Despite her guest's appearance, she never turns her eyes away from the full moon she manifested inside her own realm.

She snaps her finger, ordering her chambermaids to provide some seats for Komamura and Rimuru, which they reluctantly obey. After pledging their lives for their master, they have a very low opinion of outsiders, whether they're beneficial to Shalltear or not, partly due to jealousy that their master's attention is diverted away from them.

Rimuru happily sits down, and starts to enjoy the sights with a child-like curiosity and appreciation. Komamura, used to such decadence, chooses to quietly sips the wine being poured by the attendants through an enlarged glass fit for his canine snout.

"Ha..." Rimuru sighs contently, saying, "I never imagined that three of us could be here, now, relaxing like this... given our differing origins."

Shalltear snorts. "Hmph. Indeed, what a crazy time it has become."

"'A Coalition of Side Characters'... that'd be a good name for a story, no?" Rimuru jokes, the slime showing a beatific, otherworldly smile.

"Shut up. I am _not_ a 'side character'!"

She glances at the canine anthromorph for support, but Komamura himself seems doesn't mind being called that way.

Noticing her glare, he speaks up, "Unfortunately for you, years of serving my own late master has taught me plenty of humility, Shalltear. I won't force you to follow my own views, but merely to advise you to consider it," he says kindly.

"Tut, tut," Rimuru cuts him off. "I don't know Shalltear as long as you do, but I think your words are becoming _very_ irritating for her."

"I see," he humbly acknowledges. "You are a grown woman, despite my biased views. Apologies."

She smirks, taking a sip from her glass.

"My own master treats me the same, even though I wanted for him to see me otherwise. I'm used to it, though I won't tolerate further repetitions, you damned dog."

Her insult is conveyed with a jovial tone, completely unlike their previous conversations. In any case, it's unlikely the older Komamura will mind it too much beyond a rebellious phase of a young girl.

After a while, Rimuru breaks the silence with a question.

"Nimue has been strangely silent, hasn't she? Now this regular meeting of ours has become redundant."

Two grunts reply in agreement, leaving the room with a relaxed atmosphere.

After the meeting with SHIROU, several leaders of various realms in the Reverse Side of the World came to an agreement to shut off Nimue once and for all. Many of them held a similar view to Cheryl, in that they didn't like being manipulated and used as a tool for someone else's gain. They all heard SHIROU's sincere argument and his... 'courageous' rejection of Cheryl's fake claims, and decided to band together and act mostly not to get in each other's way while supporting SHIROUfrom the shadows.

"Should we just trust Alaya's agent?" Komamura questions.

"Aren't you his biggest supporter? Why the sudden change of moods?" Shalltear queries, taking another sip of her wine.

Closing his eyes in deliberation, he carefully replies, "Because I don't trust you, Alaya."

As if on cue, a blue glowing orb manifests itself above the room near the ceiling, forcing the three powerful beings to look up and Shalltear's attendants to turn combat-ready.

\- Astute.

"Hmph! Of course I am!" Shalltear snorts, her voice booming with pride. "I don't want to hear anything from something so energy-intensive it can't do anything by itself, having to sent agents after agents!"

Ignoring her latter sentence, Komamura speaks up, addressing the remaining people present.

"What SHIROU is doing, irrespective of what his wishes are, will definitely impact our livelihood here negatively. Since we are so dependent on Gaia, any action Alaya takes will, inevitably, benefit humans rather than the planet itself." Pouring the remaining alcohol down his throat, he continues, "I can't stand a good man being used to ruin others' life unintentionally."

\- A necessity.

Waving their palm, Rimuru snarks, "Yeah, yeah, that's what you always say... Even after you bring our separate universes together by force to improve your chances, no?"

What the slime is referencing to is, of course, the fact that the three of them are even able to meet each other right now. Originally, they all considered their first meeting to be ordinary, just encountering a stranger. They had no idea that each and every one of them weren't originally of this world, having being brought together by an outside force.

That force was Alaya, aiming to appeal to their otherworldly values to aid it against Gaia and its original creations. Therefore, despite living in the Reverse Side of the World, they were more aligned with Alaya rather than Gaia.

The three of them, along with the other members of the temporary alliance, initially had ascended their original form in their previous world. Having reached what a storyteller could call the 'ending', they transcended their first body through various means, natural or artificial, and at some point during their boring, foe-less afterlife, their worlds and domains were drawn and tied down to this dimension like soap bubbles floating across the universe.

Having been practically kidnapped to do Alaya's bidding, it's no wonder they're distrustful towards it.

Alaya was careful to draw beings that resonated with its values closely, which was to protect humanity above all else. It searched through the Akashic Records across time and space, peering through different layers and dimensions. Among those alternate universes, these were the beings chosen to be... 'contracted' to it. It had little power in keeping them here indefinitely without letting them ascend to their own Throne of Heroes in their personal universes, but for this age and era, it was enough to assist SHIROU.

Unfortunately, transcendent beings like them were near-impossible to convince to work under Alaya, most of them refusing to move out directly and only reluctantly giving out passive assistances. The ideal situation would be a Heroic Vessel supported by a battalion of powerful beings from different universes, but this experiment was a half-failure in the end.

It was only due to SHIROU's quality as a person that convinced them to assist him in a more direct fashion. Alaya had intentionally matched each being's preference with the corresponding Heroic Vessel of that era, and SHIROU had demonstrated his unrelenting love for those he cared for, and enough care for strangers to conduct himself as a hero.

After all, across all ages, people will be enamored by heroes, regardless of what they think of the man or woman.

\- Coalition?

"Forced, yes, but you got what you want, so leave us alone," Shalltear darkly says, glaring at the blue orb.

Acknowledging her reply, it vanishes, but not before one more word.

\- Careful of traps.

Sigh, Rimuru wryly smiles. "Despite its personality, that personality of hers that worry too much is quite endearing."

"Hmph... all false pats and smiles," Shalltear grumbles. "Don't be naive, Rimuru. That's when it ensnares you and never lets you leave."

"I agree," Komamura concurs. "Even its own Heroic Vessels are no more than pawns for it, precious only because of the resources it spent to create them."

"I get it, I get it. In any case, her warning won't really change anything for us side characters, right? Let's just watch the main characters do the heavy lifting and take those traps. Our jobs are only to fish them out of those pitfalls, no?" Rimuru jokes, smiling.

The female vampire roughly puts down her glass, glaring at Rimuru.

"I'm no 'side character', you disgusting slime."

"Yes, yes."

"Don't copy Komamura's reply to me!"

"Well, we kind of are, right? The moment we decline its request to move directly with its Heroic Vessel in the first place consigns us to that part of history. We should accept it faster and move on, rather than being caught up in any useless pride for being the main characters of our own story," Rimuru pleads in a neutral tone. "Despite being younger than you, I can at least surmise that much, as I'm sure you have yourself. You're letting your own pride blinding you. What about you, Komamura?"

Letting out a big lonely sigh, the anthromorphic wolf gazes at the moon.

"I spent my life as that exact 'side character', so I'm used to it." Closing his wistful eyes, he continues, "I was left alone only after my master died. Even then, I couldn't avenge him before falling myself, and when I woke, everything was already over, finished by those 'main characters' you mentioned."

Taking a glance at the smaller girl, he remarks, "Weren't your situation similar to mine, Shalltear? After you lost your master..."

\- Static.

"You better watch your words, mutt."

Sensing he stepped on a landmine, he relents, turning his attention to one of the female attendants and motioning her to refill his glass. Rimuru, too, realizes the atmosphere and keeps silent.

On the eternal night sky, the moon bleeds red.

* * *

\- Caw. Caw. Caw.

Amidst the noisy crows squawking around, Gareth can only cover her mouth with her dainty fingers, both in surprise and disgust.

"What happened here?" She asks to particularly no one with a whisper.

What lays before her eyes is Corbenic, but not the Corbenic she remembers from her past.

The normal, run-of-the-mill castle city... lays in ruins and disrepair.

Its majestic outer walls, though not as big as Camelot's, was usually splendidly cared for and maintained, imposing its strong will against invaders. Now, numerous vegetations veined their way across the cracks in the stone, where various birds make their home and feeding ground. The sturdy gates lay open, unmanned, completely opposite of its former reputation as the first line of defense against those who dared to search for the Holy Grail.

Inside of the walls are better than she fears, although that's not saying much.

The inhabitants are still here, not abandoning the town, but the listless look in their eyes signify people that have their spirits broken and their hopes smashed. There aren't any riots or noteworthy crimes as Gareth and her companions make their way through the outer city, where they're commonplace only a short while ago among the hustle and bustle of normal life. The common folks take notice of them, and in a surprising turn of event, casually look back the other way and continues to lifelessly do whatever it is they're doing. There is no disrespect or apathy in their mannerisms, merely simple acknowledgements like how they would address their own peers.

Filvis and Cecilia carefully trod behind the noble girl, eyes scanning the neighbourhood for any potential troubles. The lack of petty crimes usually precedes a major scheme is at work, and the two of them are racking their brains to try and predict what ugly deed was done to make a proud city into this... mess.

Meanwhile, having lost the forest cover, Galahad steals a cloak from a maidservant's laundry basket and follows them on the rooftops, maintaining a larger distance than before due to the diminished hiding places. His large magic energy is still leaking quite considerably unconsciously, so he is unknowingly still being tracked by Filvis.

Despite their differing goals, the two parties are mesmerized by the condition of the city, as Galahad visits this town for the first time. The condition of the outer city makes him nervous about the well-being of his birth mother. Even though this will be the first time they meet face-to-face, their blood connection alone is enough for him to feel some sort of filial affection, and his steps become more and more irregular as they approach the inner gates, a place protecting the nobles and high-ranking official.

Gareth runs up to a weary soldier manning the inner gate with his dozing partner.

"Greetings!" She greets cheerfully, faking a smile to gain his trust.

Initially, the soldier is irresponsive to her greeting, only grunting in reply, but after taking a closer look, he realizes the one calling out to him is an incredibly attractive woman, and he stammers into attention and gives a proper greeting back. He nudges his partner with the butt of his spear to wake him up, but after seeing it has little effect, he silently gives up and greedily positions himself so that he's the only one Gareth sees.

His raised awareness also lets him see two other beautiful girls following close behind the first girl, making his imagination runs wild.

"A-Ah, greetings! How may I help you, my lady?"

His voice is clearly laced with impure intentions, a trait Gareth cares for little, but she perseveres with her kind demeanor and indulges him in a conversation.

"Yes, I'd like a passage to meet His Highness, please," she replies politely, careful to exude a noble air to convince the guard she's someone from high status. After all, she's in an important mission that's to be undertaken with extreme speed and secrecy, so she's reluctant to name herself and her connection to the Knights of the Round Table.

Surprised at the enormity of the request, since a mere gate guard like him has no right to recommend someone inside the inner palace, he speaks nervously, "M-Miss, do you realize what you're asking? That's i-impossible for me to authorize. Please wait here while I defer to my superior!"

Gareth's right eye twitches in irritation as her ploy is foiled. She's hoping to charm him into allowing them passage, but at the very least they aren't rejected right here at the gate.

Before she can issue any rebuttal, however, the guard suddenly collapses to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. At the corner of her eye, the guard's partner also experienced the same movement, falling face-first into the ground from his half-sleeping position.

"Miss Filvis!" Gareth half-shouts, glaring. "What did you do?!"

"I don't have money to bribe him, nor will I entertain his lecherous desires just to pass this shabby gate. Be grateful you don't have to spent another second being leered at, Gareth," Filvis roughly replies, walking right up to the gate.

"H-Hey, w-wait...!"

Ignoring Gareth's warning, Filvis swings her wand-sword and bisected the gate diagonally in half.

A series of claps full of pity on Gareth's shoulder comes from Cecilia, who's making an equally troubled face as her friend.

"Well, I don't know what's gotten into my sister myself," Cecilia admits, grimacing, "but this behavior... I'm quite used to it from Master Mordred, not her!"

Her admission makes Gareth chuckle lightly, toning down her dreaded fears.

"You're right. What's making her so impatient...?"

Like what she thought earlier, this quest to acquire the Grail isn't one of sword-bearing, steel-flashing, fire-burning expeditions that gallant heroes and generals are famed for. From the previous failed Grail quest, as Sir Percival has briefed them before their departure, the Holy Grail chooses its wielder not based on martial might, but out of purity of heart and intelligence of mind.

As the two young girls race hurriedly towards the opened gate, with one more additional slash, Filvis repairs the gate in an instant with several small runic circles. It's not her specialty, but basic things like this are mandatory courses for any magi.

The gate glimmers with a soft white glow as the broken pieces levitate into place, just before Galahad squeezes his body through. He slams his face right into the white restorative barrier, knocking him back. The pain and embarrassment aren't felt, however, due to his unique mentality, and he simply sprints around the inner gate to find a wall he can scale comfortably.

The detour takes him further from Filvis's group, and he nearly loses their tracks for the first several miles. Fortunately, because they share a destination, he manages to return to their tail relatively quickly.

This time, in sight of the main castle, he chooses to hasten his pace and overtake their group, launching himself up the castle walls to gain a higher vantage point. The stone tiles crack under the might of his jumps, but at the very least, the sound of his landing is muffled by carefully-timed bursts of magic energy.

Of course, all of this energy emission makes it even easier for Filvis to detect him even without looking in his general direction.

Reaching the balcony at the edge of the middle floors, he swiftly enters one of the open windows. This part of the castle is surprisingly empty of people, and he makes sure to reach the king's audience hall first before the group does.

Or, at least, that's the plan...

* * *

Meanwhile, unaware of the game of cat-and-mouse being played in Corbenic, Mordred cheerfully jaunts across the town surrounding Camelot castle, a big grin plastered across her face.

Why? Because there's an amused Shirou being dragged along in her elbows with plenty of spectators watching about.

Clearly, being a princess does little for her noble manners.

" _It's a date, then!"_

It was only a few hours ago when she suddenly claimed that in the middle of a conversation with him about... food, again. One thing led to another, and they find themselves nearing a bustling marketplace, uncaring of her expensive and far-more-gorgeous-than-needed dress.

Normally, noblewomen will ride in carriages, as the ground is not clean enough to be stepped on by their dainty feet. Additionally, something like going to the market is usually left out for the servants, because unlike modern supermarkets, what the merchant displays is what one will buy – in this case, livestock is sold live and unfilleted, as is the bull led by the nose by Shirou.

Pulled from the front, pulling something at the back... Some of the spectators and merchants send Shirou stares of pity as fellow men who's used to being bossed around the market by their women.

"Shirou! Can we eat this?!"

"The spices aren't enough, so maybe next time I return from abroad."

"What about this?! This looks tasty!"

"You can't eat that raw! Spit it out! Out!"

"Uwaaa... Smells great! Can we have one? Can we? Pretty please?"

"Alright, alright..."

Mordred whizzes around the market, pointing to this and that while dragging her fiancé around. The bull is struggling to keep up with the constant change of pace and direction, mooing in protest as Shirou tries to keep it calm under the stress. On it, two baskets filled with fresh vegetables and several types of seafood gently rocks about, cleverly tied down with thin cellulose fibers made by alchemy to make sure they don't spill over the road due to Mordred's speed. Clarent is also strapped there to one side, jangling every now and then.

While keeping Mordred on track, Shirou carefully expands his senses to envelop the whole market, at times using his Pure Eyes to increase the information he receives. It's not because he's expecting any attack, far from it. It's so he can scout the best produce in the market to be able to make the best food available, before anyone else can get them before him.

Hey, a man must be competitive in _something_ , right?

He observes the sheen and the beautiful green of the vegetables, keen to spot any blemishes or diseased plants. He inhaled as much air as possible, and while some funky scent comes in with the good stuff, he tries to detect the best and most potent spices of the day and the sweetest fruits on sale. He strains his ears to listen to the cacophony of animal sounds, separating those in distress (and produce less flavour) and those which are happy (and produce the best flavour).

Of course, compared to a modern supermarket, the availability and variability of the produce are significantly lesser. The quality is also quite suspect some of the time, though the merchants of this era have at least a basic understanding on how to secure the best products and sell them at a competitive price. Also, the standard of hygiene is shockingly decent for this age, with no animal droppings from cart-pulling horses and oxen or filthy cats and dogs running around chasing infected mice, letting him relax and not worry that he has to perfom disinfecting alchemy before the _mise en place_.

When he discovers a new target... erm, a good produce, he subtly manipulates Mordred's weight to lead her to that particular place. As she's distracted by something interesting close by, he purchases the produce quickly, using subtle hypnotism through his normal eyes to haggle the price to the lowest acceptable point.

If anyone says he's cheating, he'll readily admit to it, before pointing out it's the least the merchants can do for him to babysit Mordred and prevent the market from getting damaged in any way.

As she stuffs her mouth with freshly-baked scones, alternating bites with salted roast meat slices, she speaks, "Whaf hie gunna gow nechks?"

He playfully pokes at her bulging cheeks, indicating she should swallow first before talking. She blushes and does just that, but before she can speak again, he carefully wipes her mouth with a handkerchief in a manner not too dissimilar from a mother doing the same to her child.

"Muu... I'm not a child anymore!"

"Then act like one, Your Highness," he snarks, smiling. "Ah, there's still crumbs here..."

She half-stomps her foot as he surgically wipes her face. The surrounding people smiles wrily at the two's antics, as the tales of the princess and her commoner-hero fiancé has circulated wildly and exaggerated for impact for a few months already. The account of him swooping in and saving her from certain death by Scáthach is the go-to trending bedtime story nowadays, and the princess's heroics during her first campaign is becoming more and more popular among aspiring female squires and knights. Despite all those fierce heroism, seeing the two act like normal couples endears themselves to the masses.

Patting her head, he reminds her, "Don't forget to leave room for dinner. Aren't you the one who wants me to cook? I won't forgive any waste."

"Absolutely!" She beams, giving him a thumbs-up. "Even if my stomach bursts and kills me, I won't waste any of Shirou's cooking!"

"Not that extreme, you idiot."

He flicks her forehead, leaving a red mark on her unblemished fair skin.

\- Fwish.

His body moves automatically after the slightest indication of the air being parted with a sword. He cradles Mordred's tiny waist and pulls on the bull's reign to put them behind him, lashing out with a kick towards the outstretched hand and short sword to break it.

With a sickening crunch, the offending arm bends the wrong way around its elbow joint, dropping the sword to the ground.

However, unlike a normal person who'll howl in pain, the person simply picks up the short sword with his other hand fluidly and swings upwards, aiming to bisect Shirou in two. A long cloak and hood covers the person's body and head, preventing Shirou to see his face, but it matters little.

Before his sword makes it halfway past its swing, Clarent has already bisects the sword, the remaining arm, and the person's waist diagonally in half. A pulsing crimson energy bursts past its back, dissipating in time before hitting any bystanders.

"Fuuh..."

Mordred slowly exhales, sheathing Clarent back to the sheath stored on the bull's saddle.

She carefully eyes her surroundings, spreading her senses to detect further attacks, just like how Shirou taught her. Scrunching her brows after finding nothing, she asks Shirou, "I can't feel anything... not even _before_ the attack. Who is this?"

The onlookers look on, clearly frightened of the short exchange. It was faster than any of them could react to, but the sudden appearance of a person's corpse cut in half after assaulting the kingdom's princess causes a stir among the crowd. The metallic clang of body armor resounds among the crowd, revealling the town knight guards rushing to their position.

\- Gacha. Gacha. Gacha. Gacha. Gacha. Gacha. Gacha. Gacha. Gacha.

The bisected body twitches in front of their eyes.

Slowly, one of the hands bends and curls its fingers, then jumps and floats mid-air alongside the bottom half of the body. Soon, the upper body follows, the remaining attached hand cracks this way and that to its proper position.

Under the hood, a pair of inhuman eyes shine brightly like a pair of torchlights.

Mordred quickly yells and commands the knights.

"Evacuate everyone, hurry! Take them away from here to the outside market perimeter, but don't let anyone leave! The perpetrator might still be here!"

Her Charisma catches everyone's attention, making them obedient and do just as she says quietly. With a surprisingly little amount of time, the marketplace soon empties, leaving the pair facing against this... undead? Golem? Android?

In any case, this _thing_ must be eliminated in a different way.

Carefully, Mordred pulls Clarent back out, eyes locked onto her target.

"Shirou, I'll pin him down. Can you take care of the rest?"

Smiling, he replies gently, "Since when are you the ones making plans between us?"

"Hey!" Mordred protests, but before she can respond any further, a weak groan is emitted from beneath the hood, warning them of the impending attack.

It stumbles forward very quickly, despite twitching in an awkward and inhuman manner. What comes to Shirou's mind is when he faced undead skeletons and corpses back in Ancient Egypt, revived using Hades's power or other god's authorities, but this _thing_ is much faster than those cheap knock-offs.

Despite that, to the two of them, it may as well be standing still.

Mordred dashes forward, her left hand clutching Clarent's sheath she takes from who knows when. The _thing_ automatically reacts and slashes down, but Mordred easily catches the sword _inside_ Clarent's sheath, before kneeing its torso and twists her body, locking its neck and armpit with her pair of sturdy legs and locking it to the ground.

The instant it touches the ground, Shirou shoves a large golden ring covered in jewels and silver into its crown, embedding it deep into his skull.

Immediately, the large crown-shaped ring glows and expands. Mordred quickly releases her grip, and the _thing's_ body is covered by rows upon rows of ancient Hebrew letters rotating in a triple-helix formation. The letters soon enlarge, interlocking with each other and creating a golden chainmail made of jumbled letters, forcing the _thing's_ body into a rigid position and sealing it.

"Phew..."

Mordred wipes an imaginary sweat off her brow, saying, "I've never seen that before. Is that new?"

"Which one? The attacker or what I just used?" Shirou asks back.

"Er... both? Why are you always so fussy about words!?" Mordred protests cutely.

He taps her head, bringing her ears closer. He softly says in a low voice, trying to avoid anyone eavesdropping, "I have to analyze the attacker further, but that crown was made from the nails that held Jesus Christ to his cross, granting it great sealing and purifying ability."

"Oh..." Mordred replies in an equally low voice, amazed. "What's it's name? It's beautiful... and shiny..."

"What are you, a cat?" Shirou wrily smiles, pecking her cheek with a quick kiss. "It's _Corona Ferrea Langobardiae_."

"'The Iron Crown of Lombardy'... is it from overseas? I know the Latin, but..."

Before he can explain further, several of the knights from earlier returns, panting and huffing. Shirou quickly distances himself from Mordred, keeping their distance at arms length, lest the gossip of their intimacy will only escalate even further. Mordred turns her head away from the knights' direction to cover her blush, distracting herself by observing the _thing's_ remains on Clarent's blade, trying to see whether it actually has blood or other fluids flowing through it.

"Sir!" One of the knights salute Shirou, recognizing him as the princess's fiancé. "The people are safely contained. Shall we bring them back?"

Shaking his head, he says, "No, not yet. This place is a crime scene, and should remain as pristine as possible, without the possibility of civilians contaminating it. I know they'd like to continue doing business, but please inform them the market will be closed for at least today, perhaps until tomorrow afternoon."

"Yes, sir!"

"Oh, and while you're at it, send someone to the castle and request Merlin's presence here, or some of his students, as fast as possible. Hurry!"

"Y-Yes, sir!"

The knights run off to the castle immediately, some of them breaking off to inform and calm the citizens and merchants down. There's no doubt Altria would need to reimburse a hefty amount to prevent the merchants taking massive losses from the close-down and making them leave.

He quietly sneaks up behind Mordred who's still observing Clarent's edge, softly wrapping his arms around her.

"Still blushing?" He whispers, lightly blowing some air into her earlobes, making her shiver.

Pouting, she shrugs his hug, retorting, "D-Don't do that in public... It's embarrassing... Wauuu..."

"Alright, alright," he relents, even though the pouting Mordred is also cute. "Can you accompany me to dissect our attacker when Merlin arrive? His students won't have high opinion of me without your presence, though Merlin won't care."

"S-Sure, anything for you..." Mordred mumbles, still with reddened ears.

* * *

 **Glossary Update!**

 **C**

 **Corona Ferrea Langobardiae – Crown of Crowns**  
 **Rank: A**  
 **Type: Support**  
 **Range: 1**  
 **Max. Targets: 1**

A simple crown rumored to be forged from the nails which held Jesus Christ to his cross. Now a ceremonial item, it's lavished with gold, silver, and jewels, but the purpose of these ornamental pieces is to hide the enchantments etched into it by the divine blood of Jesus. All twelve of his final disciples, bar Judas, focused their miracles into it, creating a powerful artifact of the Church.

It's simple to use. When magic energy is paid to activate it, an array of golden symbols will surround the target and seal them. No matter how physically strong its target is, it's impossible to break out unless one has a higher Conceptual Weight than Satan himself, as this crown is crafted to battle him at the days of reckoning. However, the full strength of this Noble Phantasm will only reveal itself when an amount of magic energy equaling the combined efforts of the Twelve Apostles is infused into it, lessening its place in the fast-paced battlefield.


	36. Good Discussions

**Hey, guys! Been a long time. I'm sorry for the delay for this chapter. A lot of things didn't go my way, so here's a short recap:  
1\. IRL stuff kept me busy.  
2\. Beta work which was more interesting at the time kept me busy.  
3\. The writing in this chapter and the next ones were unsatisfactory, so I rewrote them again and again, which kept me busy.**

 **I realized when I was working on the draft for this story that I failed to keep things tight for its entirety, which was the main reason future chapters were being rewritten at the moment. Thank you for your patience; I hope this opening for a new arc will satisfy all of you. I've also written the rough draft for several of my next projects, where the other Heroic Vessels will make their appearance. Look forward to them as soon as this story finishes!**

 **Now, the mailbag!**

 **King Draconias: Yes and yes. Your prediction of my reasoning is correct. Good thing I don't have to explain much!**

 **coolkid0806: Yes, I intentionally only wrote the first line to tease you guys. Shirou did chant the full version ( _my_ version, that is) of UBW in-story. For the complete chant, I'll torture you with the agonizing wait until the penultimate chapters. HAHAHA!**

 **P.S.: Anyone had the release date for the second part of the Heaven's Feel movie?**

* * *

"Thank you for your time today, ladies and gentlemen. Please, do make yourself comfortable."

Altria waves her hand in tune with her sentence, followed by multiple virtual representation of various European and British Isle leaders sitting down into their own respective seats in their own room, projected live into the conference room by Merlin's device. It turned out to be more complicated to set up, and combined with the natural unwillingness for foreign devices to be placed inside the leaders' rooms, the conference ended up being pushed back one day.

That said, Altria is glad that no one decides to skip the meeting, either by using some lame excuses or pretending to have technical problems. Yes, not even Emperor Anastasius of Rome himself, who's glaring daggers at Altria through his own projection.

Intentionally calling him out, she begins, "Now, let us begin with the person seemingly most interested in saying something: Emperor Anastasius. Please, go ahead."

Of course, the elderly man is no amateur, or his cheek would've been colored red with embarrassment.

Scowling, his voice is nonetheless very calm, saying, "Forgive the roundabout way I am about to start, but I will begin with a question. Because this is such a rare occasion, I wonder what King Arthur is aiming for in this conference? Surely, you are not calling for an international alliance?"

"As expected from a person with your experience, you are correct in deducing such," Altria responds coolly. "There are bigger thins at play, things that I have experience first hand in my kingdom, that transcends our little feud." She puts one hand up to stop Anastasius from interrupting, and immediately continues, "I am not just referencing our recent battle, of course, Emperor Anastasius, but also the little skirmishes between the rest of us, creating this tense state of international cold war."

A bearded man with blue paint covering his face speaks up.

With a low, rough voice, he says, "I agree. There are strange occurrences in my own area, and not just because of our defeat in the hands of this young king." His face is impassive, despite throwing his dignity to the floor by admitting his loss in battle. "If I may add, one of our elders who was in your employ, Emperor Anastasius... did she not advise you in this matter? I do not think Lady Scáthach is the type to let these things lay quietly."

Instantly, everyone present shoots various looks at the now-nervous Roman Emperor.

He can only manage to reply, lighlty stuttering, "T-That... I assumed that particular information is classi-"

"Classified? Hah!" The blue-faced man laughs. "It seemed not only are you incompetent at managing your Excubitors, you have also failed to control information coming out of your empire!"

"Y-You! Insolent!" Anastasius half-shouts, his fist banging his armrest, face enraged for that insult. "A tribal chief like you has no right to criticize my ability to manage an empire, which, if I may remind you, is many times bigger than yours! You know nothing!"

Several snickers escape from some of the figures present, notably an elegant Caucasian woman in her late-twenties wearing a winged helmet. Despite the helmet's rough looks, her delicate features are instead enhanced by the contrast of styles. However, she _is_ the chief of the Scandinavian tribes, and wears Thor-related items as a result, and her prowess in battle is unquestioned.

"It seems you find yourself overmatched, Emperor Anastasius," she teases, her hand covering her giggling mouth. "Fufufu... Now, let's act like adults and focus on the real threat to us and our kingdoms, shall we? Arguing will only empower those evil beings, of course."

"I agree completely with Chief Hrosvit. Let us forgive all past transgressions and focus, at least temporarily, for our... no, _humanity's_ survival, yes?" Altria says, her gaze sweeping the room.

Everyone gives at least a gesture of approval, and even Anastasius returns a grumpy nod, acknowledging his verbal defeat.

A dark-skinned bald man raises one hand, of which Altria grants a turn to speak.

"Ahem, so... My kingdom has these records of..."

* * *

\- Clink. Clink. Clink.

"Argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh..."

\- Clink. Clink. Clink.

"Argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh..."

\- Clink. Clink. Clink.

"Argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh... argh..."

Enjoying the pained sounds accompanied by the occasional shiver of chains, I casually walk inside Unlimited Blade Works.

Lately, the view inside has been improving, perhaps due to my increased intimacy and acceptance of Mordred. The grass become lusher and taller, swaying gently under a randomly generated wind. The sky, clear as ever, is populated more and more of celestial objects in between the various gears, both old-fashioned and nouveau-styled. As ever, the temperature is hotter than what is normally comfortable for humans, but for me, it's just right.

However, don't mention that to my prisoner here, who's being tormented by what I can only describe as an everlasting inferno.

"Are you enjoying it?" I ask sarcastically.

Scáthach groans, seemingly ignorant of my question.

Well, if one is subjected to this kind of torture, no matter how powerful an immortal being is, they'll break eventually. Especially because the Noble Phantasm and its wielder that I chose specialize in this task.

Even now, the Soul of Fire stands watch behind her, their twisted flaming sword on guard under their joined palm.

They silently acknowledge me. Without sound, without movement... even I wonder sometimes how on earth am I able to decipher their intentions.

Ah, yes. I keep mentioning the Soul of Fire in plural form because they're exactly that: plural. They are an amalgamation of the heroes from another forsaken world, a world that was dying like a flame giving out to the wilted candle wax. They pointlessly tried to prolong the life of a doomed era, only for that world to be destroyed in the end. A hopeless kind of world, served and protected by stupidly selfless heroes that did nothing but prolong the inevitable.

They're exactly _my_ kind of people, if I may speak roughly.

Their souls are constantly being burnt as fuel to prolong the flame of life which supported their world, a fate of unending torture. In fact, that was exactly the way the process which created them was sometimes used: a method of punishment for outlaws and criminals. Being burnt by a flame will turn a person's sense of pain dull eventually, but the Kiln of Flame that birthed them will not allow that. Anyone thrown into its powers will endure pain until their souls are dissolved as energy for its consumption.

Scáthach has barely started her... session, therefore she still retains most of her beautiful divine form.

Even with red beads of blood-sweat pouring down her face, and her long, lustrous hair disheveled due to pain, her twisted face is still beautiful. I'm not speaking like I'm going to cheat on Mordred, but that's what people will objectively describe her current features, even when bound. Her rich breasts are swaying around under the tight black clothes that leave little to the imagination. Only the fiery glare shooting from her eyes keep me from approaching close enough to touch her face with my nose.

I gingerly lift her chin so she can look up to me. She opens her mouth wide to bite me, but she reconsiders it at the last moment and lets me do anything I please.

"...ease..."

"Hm? What?" I purposefully declined to interpret her fevered breath. "Say it again."

She bites her lower lip, before submitting to my intense will.

"Please... let me die..."

"Of course not."

"WHY?! WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY?! Please kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me!"

She starts to wail and scream, shaking the chains binding her. However, Enkidu is created precisely to handle divine beings such as her, and doesn't even budge in the slightest.

I grab the sides of her cheeks with my palm, shutting up her jaw forcefully.

With my ears ringing slightly, I try and put on my coldest face.

"Are you willing to tell me whatever I want? Just for one chance to die, Scáthach?"

She vigorously nods, her eyes blank with desires.

"Lies. Thank you, and goodbye."

"NO! NO, PLEASE, WAIT! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!"

"What is it?" I ask back, pretending to be irritated.

Desperate, she coughs out, "Nimue! You only want her, right? I'll tell you everything! EVERYTHING! So, please don't leave and kill me now!"

"I'll hold the latter after you talk, Scáthach," I say, a stone-cold expression on my face. "Speak. I don't have much time."

A glint of hope enters her eyes, and her face brightens under the sweat and grim that cover it.

Not that I'd entertain her wishes. She hurt Mordred, plain and simple. Why would I bother to do so?

"The Holy Grail," she croaks. "That bitch wants to use the Holy Grail to raise an army and wipe this kingdom off the history books."

I feign surprise at her admission. "That's impossible! The Holy Grail's location has been lost after the first failed expedition by King Arthur!"

"That's if you don't have a guide with a connection to the Holy Grail, and Nimue has it." She closes her eyes momentarily to catch her breath, before continuing, "The boy that fought alongside me... He has a Grail shard within him, merged inside him when he was but a fetus inside her mother's womb. He's the Fisher King's grandson!"

After a moment of silence to accentuate her impact on me, I urge her further. So far, she hasn't given me something I haven't suspected in the first place, and her information only adds credibility to my predictions.

"Grandson, huh... So that's where the Holy Grail connection came from."

"Yes, yes! You got it!" She vigorously nods, her lustrous purple-black hair swinging wildly with her head movement. Several droplets of drool drips down the side of her lips in her mad agreement to my statement, further telling me she's on the edge of breaking.

' _I'll enjoy this, Scáthach...'_

"Can she do that in the first place, though? I could've sworn I incapacitated him during our fight... Or did the Grail sustain his body enough to withstand my strike?"

"I... I don't know..." she meekly replies, afraid of angering me and cancelling our informal agreement. "But I can guarantee you he's still alive! That's your lead! Please release me and kill me already! Please kill me! Please kill me! Please kill me! Please kill me!"

I slap her, breaking her jaw and silencing her mad rant. After several seconds, her immortality kicks in and repairs it into its original state.

Her eyes look at me with fear and submission.

"Have you calmed down yet?"

"Y-Yes...!"

I sigh.

"Haaa... Then, what are the Romans doing in this? I don't think Emperor Anastasius was so generous he'd blindly follow the plan of some disguised woman he didn't know."

"H-He'd do anything to erase the Pendragon bloodline from this planet... ugh..." She speaks slowly, still in pain after I hit her. "For... d-defying his empire and f-fighting back... not submitting..."

Ah, it seems I set Unlimited Blade Works too harsh on her. in this place, I _am_ the World, and can control whatever goes inside it to some extent. I could've neutralized her immortality, because it is granted by Gaia and thus isolated from this place, but I deliberately put it back in just to prevent her dying on me. Ditto for her five senses: sight, hearing, scent, pain, and taste are all enhanced sufficiently to alow her the maximum amount of agony possible.

A few seconds is enough for the pain to fade away into a dull throb, and she starts to speak more eloquently again.

"His empire is breaking up, so he needs some results for his citizens... And those 'barbarians' on the other side of the Channel is a perfect trophy to grab," she admits, her breathing calmer. "I, too, was under their hospitality in exchange of my fame and expertise."

I softly wince, closing my eyes.

"An all-out assault..."

"Aided by whatever monstrosities Nimue can extract from the Holy Grail," she adds.

I grimly say, "So this next conference won't result in anything peaceful, huh?"

"I think my people will submit, after their crushing defeat."

"You don't seem too concerned," I point out.

She gurgles out a chuckle, before wincing in pain as the Soul of Fire's powers continue to torment her.

"I am a citizen of the World, not just a glorified warrior-god that was worshiped everywhere she went," she pitifully replies, her tone full of sad and regret.

' _Was her ascension into godhood this unappealing for her?'_

"I've... I-I've said everything I can, Hero Vessel SHIROU..." she pleads. "Enough of this... Please, grant me mercy and release me from my plight...!"

Without even bothering to reply, I turn my back around and start to walk away.

"H-HEY! WAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTT! THIS ISN'T THE DEAL!" She screams, rebelling against the fiery chain binding her.

My only reply comes from a partly-turned face, full of mocking.

"I lied."

"NNNNNNOOOOOOO! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! You can't do this to meeeeeee!"

Her voice grows smaller and smaller as I dispell Unlimited Blade Works, leaving her to her deserved fate.

No one hurts the woman I love and gets away with it.

* * *

 _Mordred is used to heat._

 _As such, the tongues of flame licking her skin barely registers in her pain-sensing nerves. No, even more extreme than that, the fire is somehow… soothing…_

 _Of course, if she couldn't handle the heat, her powers would've destroyed her a long time ago. This is true for most warriors of this era, when excessive power means excessive risks. Mordred's birth and growth has been very unusual, perhaps one of a kind through history, but even that can't compare in strangeness of her current situation._

 _Raised by a Heroic Vessel; a human, but not human at the same time. Descended from a dragon, but she herself can't be considered draconic in the slightest; her father and grandfather are the same. Her mother, a witch, deigned her to be a knight, thus she never inherited her mother's legacy._

 _What_ _ **is**_ _Mordred, then?_

 _Her head feels fuzzy, and her body sluggish. A phenomenon very familiar to her; after all, this must be the beginning of another Dream Cycle._

 _Therefore, she has nothing to fear. Others may panic at this state of partial paralysis and weakness, but Shirou will never hurt her._

 _She's inside him, again._

 _Somehow, this feels more like home than her actual residence, both her current one in Camelot and the humble abode she and Shirou resided in the past._

 _However, if one looks around, they will think she's crazy._

 _How can a person be comfortable in this place? The grass looks lush and healthy and squishy, yes, but will someone lay down among blades so sharp they can cut the person looking at them from a distance away? The sky and wind maintain a good temperate climate, with cool breeze blowing every now and then, creating the perfect sensation for a nap; yet, can one enjoy the sight in front of them when they lay down, when a cluster of artificial gears litter the horizon, covered in the myriad of colors dawn till dusk can give?_

 _\- Static._

 _How can a person rest peacefully, when the moans of the tortured resounds from left, right, up, down, and everywhere?_

 _Somehow, Mordred's heart is satisfied by hearing that sound._

 _\- Static! Static! Static!_

 _At a distance far enough for her enhanced eyesight to be unable to pick up any unnecessary details, a tall bonfire is burning brightly, forming a torch as a land marker. The size of the flame must be huge, since she estimated its height to be at least triple her height._

 _ **\- STATIC.**_

 _That blaze… shouldn't be approached. She isn't sure of many things in life, but not for this one._

 _But… in that place… is Shirou…?_

* * *

Despite the busy admistrative workload currently happening inside Camelot, the outer gates are relatively peaceful. After victories against the Picts and the Romans, there has been less and less skirmishes along the borders, much less near the capital city. As it's a rare, sunny day, the decently-paid guards are starting to yawn just past midday.

Luckily, before they manage to nod off, two silhouettes appear on the horizon, walking towards their location on foot.

One of the two guards bops the other with his elbow to his side, before squinting his eyes to see past the simmering and pleasantly warm air.

"Travellers? At this time?" The other guard mumbles loud enough for his partner to hear.

Normally, merchants and other travelers arrive in the morning or near sunset, owing to the more agreeable business time and climate. Being the capital, Camelot is no stranger to hordes and hordes of commuting citizens every day, but the ones usually using the outer gate under the intense light of midday sun are mostly family members of the guards or supervisors touring their work, not outsiders.

Being so unusual, tension begin to ramp up between them, and their hands are trained to their weapon. The handles of the cheap, mass-produced swords creak under their nervous grip, itching to be pulled out and used.

As the two silhouettes come closer and closer, their appearance becomes clearer and clearer. One of them is a young adult male, slightly shorter in height, with a completely ordinary appearance. The most striking thing about him is the natural pressure he emanates, similar to those of grizzled war veterans, palpable even to the two guards' low skill, and the crimson sabre he wears on his hip.

The other is an otherworldly beauty, with her blue-violet hair that shines under the sunlight and pointed, slightly-longer-than-normal ears. _'An elf,'_ they surmises, which is a rare occurrence. There are few occasions when demi-humans come to Camelot, mostly to do business and political visits, but those are far and few in between. Silently, they just keep staring at her, lapping at her innocent and tempting allure with a hungry gaze.

That is, until the bladed edge of the crimson sabre suddenly presses up against their throat, unnoticed until it touches their skin and draws blood.

"H-How...!"

Indeed, the speed at which Imina moves is simply inhuman. The guards' eyes simply can't keep up, resulting in their current predicament.

"I don't appreciate you looking at my wife, bastards," he whispers dangerously, his eyes gleaming with killing intent. After a short while, and several cold sweats have rolled, he lets them off, shoving them to one side. "Do your job properly, assholes," he warns, before strolling past the gate alongside Ellis.

The two of them are too stunned with what just happened that they just dumbly lets them pass without proper administrative work, their butts falling down to the ground in shock.

* * *

"Hmm?"

Tristan sleepily rouses from his perch above one of the taller trees dotted across Camelot's higher levels in a rare show of negligence from the archer-knight. The conference is going well, judging from the lack of shouting and object-throwing that is conveyed to his ears. He decided to take a small break earlier, to enjoy the sun for a while. His wife, Lady Iseult, will be shocked seeing him like this, but he simply dislikes it when she sees his uncool side, such as right now.

What catches his attention is the sudden spike of bloodlust coming from the outer gate, and as soon as it shoots up, it calms down again, as if having done whatever deeds that pleases its emitter. Worrying that someone powerful has come to stir trouble, he lightly hops up, landing in a squat and peering to the general direction it came from earlier.

Two figures appear from behind the gate, one male, one female, both on the smaller side. The sight of the two guards that should've been guarding that side of the wall is nowhere to be seen, although his vantage point is bad and blocked by the stone arches and the giant wooden gate.

He whistles, signalling to one of the patrols to hurry and prepare a small group of men. He jumps down to ground level from a height that will kill a normal person, but he skillfully uses the tree branches and deft climbing ability to safely descent to the ground. He retrieves his bow from his back to ready it for shooting, and after a while, several men on horseback appears from one of the main castle's small stables with one riderless horse beside of the leading man.

Expertly climbing on top of the horse, he leads them towards the direction of the trouble, while briefing them of his observation as they walk.

"Hm? What's going on?"

The group veers to one side as Mordred pops up from a crowd to ask.

Tristan is the one replying. "Your Highness, there seems to be some trouble at one of the gates. The lack of alarm worries me, so I shall take a look."

At the mention of the word 'trouble', her eyes lit up.

"Then I'm going too!"

She excitedly walks to the front of the group, leading the horses and lightly pulling on Tristan's one. The group's protests of how she should have her own horse or hitch a ride with one of them are ignored, her mood seemingly very good. The men internally groan at the potential earful they'll get when they return to the castle, but they are soon focused on the job at hand.

However, about three-quarters distance, she signals them to stop with no one in sight.

Tristan inquires, "My lady, are they here?"

His voice is polite and courteous as always, but his eyes are sharp, scanning the area for potential avenues of attack.

Mordred wordlessly nods.

The men behind them notice the tense atmosphere building up, and begin to palm each of their own weapons, ready to be pulled out at any time.

A few more seconds pass without anything happening.

Then, suddenly...

"Oh, my... what a rapturous welcome."

A sapphire-blue crown of hair glitters under the sun, with its owner holding a piece of fried cod and butter potatoes. Her exquisite face is marred by several dots of oil scattered across her lips and cheek, with an ordinary-looking young man behind her, walking at a face pace and trying to wipe the excess dirt off her face.

"Do you see, dear? Is that not Princess Mordred?" The woman asks her husband cheerfully, seemingly uncaring of the group of armed, armored horsemen confronting them with weapons at the ready.

The young man sighs, then moves to her front and wipes her face clean with a wet cloth. He then says, "Yes, she looks like what Shirou described. Why don't you greet her? My courtesy's not good enough for royalty."

"Please don't undersell yourself, although I shall partake in your invitation." Lifting the edges of her skirt, she bows to Mordred in a perfect manner, saying, "Greetings, Your Highness Princess Mordred. I am Ellis, an elf, visiting for a holiday of sorts."

"Did you mention 'Shirou'?" Mordred asks, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What do you know of him?"

Calmly, Ellis replies, "We only met for a short while, though he left quite an impression on us, the elves. Ah, of course, my earlier excuse of 'holiday' is a lie to cover up a diplomatic visit, with me as the representative. Further information will be disclosed when... proper audiences are present, as I'm sure you've already figured out."

Imina stays silent behind his wife, keeping a vigilant glare towards the group of horsemen.

Mordred eyes Tristan, who replies with a silent gesture of 'I'm fine with whatever you decide'.

She signals to the horsemen, saying, "All of you, please check on the guards near the gate, then patrol around to prevent any further intrusions. As for the two of you," she coldly speaks, "if I recall, diplomatic visits require _a lot_ of paperwork. Where are yours? We can talk right here before you produce them."

"Paperwork? I apologize, but we never use that in our region. Being people of the highest degree of honor and dignity, our words are enough as a contract. Your grandfather must've mentioned something similar, no?" Ellis answers while puffing her chest out in pride.

However, her words only receives an intense glare of anger from the dragon princess.

"You should be careful to mention his name in my presence, Miss Ellis. I will not tolerate people who uses it lightly to get into my head."

Tristan gulps in nervousness, his sense of danger screaming at him to run away from Mordred's back right now.

Amazingly, or rather unsurprisingly, the elven representative doesn't budge in the slightest, merely smiling softly like a mother scolding her child.

"I do not mean such offenses. I, too, know of him little, and it'd be uncouth of me to speak on his behalf when the last elf who knew him while he was alive was perhaps my father." Ellis bows, apologizing. "Returning to the main issue, shall we proceed with the matter of our entry? I trust there are no problems?"

\- Step.

"No, there are no problems."

"Shirou!" Mordred exclaims with mixed emotions.

Out of nowhere, without Tristan detecting his arrival, the redheaded fiancé of the princess appears and answers on her behalf. Normally, this is considered very rude to sidestep royal authority and supplant their opinion with his own without express permission. Heck, just by showing up out of thin air like that near Her Highness Mordred would be enough for his team to consider Shirou a threat, if they didn't know his prowess in the past. Of course, Mordred won't be offended at all because she's not a stickler to the rules, but surely he realizes his faux pas!

He smirks at Ellis while patting Mordred's head, much to her surprise and protest.

"You sure like an entrance, don't you? Did you plan all this, like how you ambushed me and Filvis back then?" He asks, his tone laced with zero openings. "And why didn't you keep her under control, Imina? I know your social standing won't allow you to, but at the very least, talk some sense into your wife! Geez..."

The man in question simply shrugs in response, seemingly given up on the conversation. Ellis simply giggles, amused.

"In any case, there's no way I'm allowing you two to the castle without the proper procedure. I've got to save Mordred's face in front of the knights and people, you know? Whatever it is you want, let's first move to a secure place." He immediately points one finger in the air, warning, "And this is not a request, by the way. The two of you should know better."

"Yes, of course," Ellis obediently nods, followed by Imina's nonchalant response.

Shirou signals Tristan with the movements of his eyes to take the two foreigners someplace neutral, which he obliges by sending three of his men to escort the two of them. Before he can do anything else, his sleeve is caught by Mordred's hand.

Her eyes drills straight into his, asking, "Shirou, what's wrong?"

"Nothing much."

"Liar." Mordred moves closer, enough to fully display her intimacy with the man in front of him. "Even though you never show any outward signs, I know when you're lying. Please, tell me."

Her desperate voice caves in his resolve. Sighing, he says, "The conference... isn't doing great. Outwardly, all is fine, but Nimue has already moved behind the scenes to incite several other armies to join together and annihilate us in one fell swoop."

"What?!"

The question comes not from Mordred, but from the eavesdropping Tristan. The couple is speaking with a low voice to avoid alerting the others, but his eyes are sharp enough to lip read.

Hurriedly coming over, he forcibly intrudes into their private space, demanding answers.

"In that case, should I warn the other Knights of the Round Table?" He asks in a low, gruff voice filled with an intense sense of dread. "If so, then I must hurry!"

Shirou grabs his arm to garner his attention, and says, "While you're at it, prepare an expedition party as well. There's no need for fanfare or large numbers, just enough provision so that Mordred and I can depart immediately."

"Where?" Mordred inquires.

"Wherever Filvis and the others are going now," he says gravely. "The Holy Grail expedition is a trap."


	37. Abject Failure

**Hey, guys! Happy summer! Sorry this got delayed, but I think this will be my new release schedule: once a month or every two months. My apologies for the slowing-down, but IRL stuff won't let me hasten my pace. In any case, let's dive into the mailbag.**

 **dreaddragonknight: Thank you for your comprehensive review of _every_ chapter. Wow. Welcome to the club! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as much, or even more, than the previous ones.**

 **hyperomegasonic26: Your theory is well-founded, but that's not the exact reason why SHIROU did it. Yes, he has memories from the canon Shirou and EMIYA, but the real reason will be revealed in the following chapters. It has something to do with SHIROU's new UBW. That's a little spoiler for all of you!**

 **King Draconias: Thanks for the review. Like hyperomegasonic26, it's a plausible scenario, although not entirely correct. Please read my reply above.**

 **zubhanwc3: Great news for all of us! Thanks a lot!**

 **LoneWriter091: Yes, it was.**

 **I see most of you disagreed with my treatment to Scáthach and the OOC moment for SHIROU. But I'll explain the reason behind it in later chapters, I promise. It may be several chapters later, when the climax of the final arc is building, so please be patient. Now, as we enter a new arc, please enjoy some dungeon-diving.**

 **Don't forget to review, follow, and favorite!**

* * *

The first thing Cecilia thinks of the moment she steps into the audience chamber is disgust.

Her eyes narrow in disappointment and her shoulders slacken in bitterness. How could she not, when the Fisher King, ruler of Corbenic, is left in this state? She, a commoner, actually feels pity for the first time for a royalty. Sighing, she trots across the stone floor, intending on touching the king's slumped posture, but her sister's hand grabs her elbow to prevent her from doing so.

She aims a questioning stare at the black-haired elf, but she's simply replied by a tired shake of the head.

Gareth can only muster enough power to whisper. "What... on earth..."

"Let's take a walk," Filvis urgently says, walking to one side towards one of the smaller side doors.

They rushes through the side passage provided by the door, before eventually breaking into a small jog.

"Miss Filvis, can you explain?!" Gareth asks, lightly panting due to shock, not exertion. "How did His Highness end up that way? Why are we in a hurry?"

"Corbenics's dried up!" Filvis replies. "The cause... I'm still theorizing, and the place we're going to now should confirm or deny my hypothesis. In any case, don't split up, no matter what happens."

Seeing Filvis's tenseness, both Gareth and Cecilia unsheathe their sword while palming their secondary weapons in their non-dominant hand. In Cecilia's case, it's the pendulum secret weapon she used a while ago, while Gareth carries around a shortsword.

\- Whoosh.

The three of them simultaneously stop in their tracks as they feel an incoming object, moving at incredible speed.

This side passage they're in started out as a fully enclosed space, a stone tunnel with intermittent rows of torches lighting their way. It's quite long, but their increased pace allowed them to reach the second part of the passage, which seems to end in a slim balcony with large arches that allows fresh air to come in from one side.

And standing on the rails under one of such arches is Galahad.

Without a word, he turns his back to them and runs in the exact same direction they're aiming at.

Filvis instantly taps the two females' shoulder beside her, yelling, "GO!"

They break into a full sprint, chasing after Galahad's young back.

Their steps echo on the stone floor and walls. Both Filvis and Cecilia have enchanted their bodies with a low-level Reinforcement spell, while Gareth relies on her superior physical conditioning to keep up. In Cecilia's case, it's an instinctive use of the spell, casted on her body by imagining a flow of energy that permeates through every fiber of her being, because Shirou and Mordred didn't teach her any Magecraft.

This fact goes by her two companions, as their minds are occupied by not letting Galahad reach their destination before them no matter what.

They races upwards as their passage ends in a door leading inside one of the castle's side towers. Filvis feels a slight discomfort as she passes the tower's meager magical barrier, but she immediately dispels the thin wall with brute magical power. Inwardly, she wonders how Galahad manages to pass this barrier without breaking it, but the question can be left for another time.

However, their charge is halted just after they pass the door, leaving them inside the main lobby of the tower.

There, Galahad, too, stands dumbly, confused on how to proceed.

The stairs to go upstairs and downstairs... aren't there.

Instead, only a part of the lobby's floor remains, and the rest of the floor is replaced by murky darkness that seems to go on forever. Above and below them, floating in the dark, are fragments of the stairs that are supposed to be there, some upside down, some horizontal, all chaotic.

However, Filvis decides the sudden change in scenery to be secondary to their foremost objective.

In one smooth, flowing motion, she unsheathes her rapier and charges at Galahad.

The boy widens his eyes in surprise, and waves his hand in reflex, summoning a rudimentary transparent blue wall. However, before the wall is completed, the tip of Filvis's rapier shines and fires a quick penetrating spell even before she gets in range for melee, piercing a hole in his shoulder.

"Ugh!" He groans in pain, but still manages to flip his defensive wall sideways, sending it flying like a giant rectangular saw.

The elf slides on the floor, evading the counterattack with millimeters to spare, and springs upward with her rapier. She unleashes one, two, three strikes, all aimed at his vitals, but the split second he bought with his magical shield earns him the space to swing his plain sword, barely parrying her strikes, though his flesh is cut several times.

Before he can catch his breath, however, Filvis knees him in the crotch, sending him flying downwards towards the infinite darkness below.

His mind turns white due to pain as he lets out a silent scream, falling down fast.

Cecilia hurries to the edge, but she can only catch a glimpse of the boy's body as he sinks head-first towards the empty space, dropping like a stone between the stairs' fragments.

Gareth winces, complimenting Filvis, "Wow... Miss Filvis... That's brutal, geh..." She clicks her tongue to wash out the dirty feeling inside her mouth, saying, "I didn't expect you to be so capable."

The person in question simply shakes her head gently, merely answering, "That's only because I've faced him before. I can't let him get his rhythm going, or he'll be troublesome."

"But is it wise to attack him without provocation like that? I mean, he doesn't look all that bad..." Cecilia quietly says, but her face stiffens up as she sees the look in her sister's eyes.

"Cecilia, he was trying to kill _you_ back then. How can you be so nonchalant about yourself?" Filvis hisses out of worry. "I don't care what he's aiming to do, but it'd be nothing good for us. Don't be too nice to others, or they'll bite."

"Well, my injuries aren't _that_ bad..."

Filvis huffs, flicking her black hair to one side. "In any case, we should try and map a course upstairs. I can weave something with my magic, but it'd take a while. Guard me."

Without waiting for a reply, she sits down on the floor, closing her eyes to concentrate.

Acknowledging her order, Cecilia and Gareth stands in position near her, vigilant of their surroundings.

As they wait, Cecilia asks in a low voice, "Lady Gareth, do you have any experience against this type of terrain?"

Shaking her head, the knight replies, "This... must be a form of Bounded Field. I have experience against them, yes, but only small-scaled ones. One this size... Its conjuror must be considerably skilled."

"Then, how can we disspell it?"

"Dispelling it depends on several key parameters. First, whether this is an isolated space from the beginning or an effect of the Bounded Field itself must be determined. Or, at least, that's what I gathered during some training exercises," Gareth explains. "Both cases can be dispelled by destroying the boundary sigils that act as foundations for the Bounded Field, or in some cases, the casters themselves. However, experienced magi will design those sigils to act independently to them, only siphoning energy from a close source nearby..."

Her voice tails off as a realization dawns on her face, drawing Cecilia's curiosity.

"The Holy Grail..." Gareth whispers. "Of course! This is supposed to be the castle where the Holy Grail is kept! Could the Grail itself create this space? Hm..."

Her thoughts are interrupted by Filvis's swearing.

"Oh, shit."

Surprised at her sister's uncouth mouth, Cecilia glances at the black-haired elf, wondering what may have caught Filvis's attention.

"W-What's the matter?" Gareth asks nervously.

"We can't go up," Filvis mutters flatly. "We have to go down, to where the Holy Grail is."

The realization that they've just kicked their opponent straight towards their common goal dawns on the other two after several seconds.

"Oh, shit," the two mutters simultaneously.

* * *

He is falling.

Falling...

Falling...

Falling...

Galahad floats in the darkness, slowly descending without any control of his body, limbs limp and inactive. The places Filvis hit are still sore, but they remain dull throbs instead of pure, piercing pain. This time, however, the most dangerous thing is his inability to get a bearing, other than the certainty he's going downwards.

The shards of stairs, so ever-present above, are even more numerous down here. They look close enough that his eyes can make out the grains in the stone, but as soon as one drifts close enough, his sense of distance warps and the large chunk of masonry is already far away again. This is why his body hasn't hit any of them despite his high descent velocity.

He is still falling.

Falling...

Falling...

Falling...

As time passes, a familiar feeling starts to envelop him.

A feeling from years ago... The sensation of being surrounded by warm water... No, it's not the water that was 'warm', but an intangible feeling of being drowned in something 'warm'.

Something like a mother's embrace.

"Mother..." He involuntarily let's out a soft voice.

She close. Very close. He can feel it. Closer and closer, now. He's coming back, going home. He's almost there. She's definitely here. Closer. Closer. Closer. Like a chant that keeps on repeating over and over again in his head, a strong tug is pulling his soul closer and closer. With each second that passes, the feeling grows stronger and stronger.

' _Is this what you call a child's yearning?'_ He silently wonders.

\- Static.

"Tch!"

\- Static. Static. Static.

He moves his body, squirming, wiggling, anything that'll take him faster to where he wants to go.

They're chasing him. He can feel it in his bones.

A large, violent swarth of light. A familiar small prickling at the back of his neck. An unfamiliar scent of steel and flowers.

There are three, just like the three people he chased after.

\- STATIC!

He curls himself into a ball, magic energy violently gushing outwards from every pore of his skin. The faint blue energy surrounds him like a thick egg white, devoid of shell, but far stronger and more flexible.

And not a moment too soon.

He feels contact near his legs' area, and a quick cursory glance reveals a rather large sphere, tied by a string, bounced off his impromptu barrier in an attempt to tie up his legs. Judging by the size and speed of the impact, not only would it hinder his movements, it's likely it'll straight up fracture his ankles.

The blonde girl who threw it widens her eyes in surprise. This is the same girl who he has defeated back then in the plains, where she was accompanied by two different companions. She was skilled, sure, but so very _normal_ , and 'normal' won't cut it against people like him.

However, he doesn't see his biggest threat, the black-haired elf, behind her.

No, she is already past him.

In his panic, he turns his attention downwards, where the elf's back's silhouette is, but that image flickers into nothingness, replaced by a very sharp rapier tip aiming into the place between his eyebrows.

He instinctively tries to create some more distance by leaning his neck backwards, but such reaction turns out to be unnecessary.

Like the blonde girl's weapon, the rapier's tip clashes head-on with the barrier with enough force to temporarily bend the blade in the elf's hand, before slipping to one side. The elf doesn't look surprised, merely annoyed, before straightening her blade by pushing against his barrier and using the force to propel herself downwards.

He wishes to accelerate faster and catch up to her, but before he can move, a blinding flash of light covers his field of vision, forcing him to wince and leaving him open to a blunt strike from the side. Through his flickering sight, he sees the other girl who's clad in armor using her sheathed blade as a club to bat him away to one side.

Unlike previous attempts, this time, he does crash into one of the flying pieces of staircases, embedding him deep into the stone.

The two ladies only spare a fleeting glance towards him, before free-falling once again to the place where his mother is supposed to be.

"No..." he groans weakly as he struggles to lift himself from the stone.

He grits his teeth in regards of his weakened state. Down there... there is his _mother_ , calling him. He knows it's her. There's no mistaking this familiar feeling, lost to him for so long... a similar feeling whenever Lancelot's sanity returns intermittently and he looks at Galahad with a fatherly glance, despite his inability to verbally express it. Galahad knows what it is, now. There can be no more hesitation, no more questioning of his feelings.

That is filial _love_.

And that is what draws him to this place, to stubornly resist the three women that has just passed him. The siren call that tugs his heart beautifully, completely unlike the corrupting whispers of the Holy Grail or the teachings of Nimue. A yearning for his parents, and now the three women over there is going to take it away from him?

"NO!"

Using all his strength, he explodes out of his confines and shoots downward, ready to challenge whoever they are that dare to endanger his mother.

* * *

"Sir Shirou? What is the matter?" Altria asks, surprised at the suddenness of her future son-in-law entrance.

"Pardon me, Your Majesty," Shirou bows in apology, but his steps' speed doesn't lessen, despite his presence in the king's personal study. "I would like to observe any recent documents regarding Corbenic and the Holy Grail, along with any correspondence you have with King Fisher." With his eyes, he pleads, "I know this is abrupt, but this is very important. I shall explain in due time, but for now... Please."

She dumbly nods and murmur an approval, her brain still not catching up with the fact that Shirou, the person who in her eyes epitomes calmness and steady judgement, would be so rushed. She expects this behavior from her Knights, especially Mordred, and Merlin from time to time, but never the mature redhead.

Shirou, meanwhile, never even glances at Altria's gesture and begins to scan the shelves for the documents he's been looking for. It's fortunate her attendants aren't there, or he'll receive quite a good scolding, despite his relationship with Mordred. Her attendants, both elderly, comes from a time when everyone must grovel and lick the king's footsteps to be acceptable, and will certainly not be afraid of chastising the probable future king consort.

She mutters, "The 3rd row from the right... Yes, that. And the 7th row, 5th column from the left, near the bottom should be... Ah, you found it. Yes, yes... Oh, there are still some in my drawers in my chambers. Would you like to see them as well?"

"If you don't mind."

She walks out of the room, completely unaware that she, as a king, is being used as a servant for Shirou. Soon, a few more stacks make their way onto one of the spare tables in her study, where Shirou has piled his findings and beginning to scan some of the documents.

"Thank you," he whispers, clearly not wanting his concentration disturbed. The intensity in his amber eyes is such that Altria subconsciously backs down, before finally settling to finishing whatever document she started earlier to distract herself.

However, the words on the parchments simply bounce off her eyelids as her mind is preoccupied by the topic Shirou requested. 'Corbenic'. 'Holy Grail'. 'King Fisher'. Does he see something she and Merlin didn't when they commissioned the latest Grail quest? Is there something wrong?

The timing of this is certainly inconvenient, not after one of the most heated conference she has ever sat it. The international talk went predictably noisily, with the sides that had a stake in the Roman Empire arguing against the nations whose borders were feeling the negative effect of their campaign. She played the victim, firing off vindication and demands and compensations left, right, and center, interposing her points between the debate. Anastasius became more and more passive as the talk went on, clearly feeling his losing momentum.

Or... was it truly that simple? Is the Anastasius she knows the kind of man that would timidly fade into the background and run, covering his losses like a coward?

...no, he wouldn't, would he?

The Roman Empire, in its current state, is still the largest Empire in the continent, although smaller than what it was under Caesar's leadership. Normally, after losing such a prominent figure, a non-royalty at that, infighting was bound to occur because there was no guideline, no royal bloodline to follow to determine whose words to follow. Not to mention the Empire's policy of democracy. Anastasius must be a capable statesman and strategist to battle at three political fronts: the nobles and aristocrats, the common folks, and external threats.

Clearly, Anastasius is a figure to be feared, a person whose every move must be scrutinized to avoid being counterattacked in return.

So why did he resist so little, aside from an uncharacteristic and childish outburst near the beginning?

The answer... Yes, the answer must lie in whatever Shirou is doing right now.

Slowly, she rises from her seat and peeks at whatever it is he's doing from behind his shoulder. A warrior of his caliber will certainly have sensed her movements, and the fact he doesn't give any particular reaction means her presence is accepted. However, she can't help but think her attitude right now is far more intimate than what she thinks their current relationship is.

What does he think of her, really? As a king, when he showed up and revealed his relationship with Mordred... Wait, no, it's the other way around with Mordred enthusiastically showing her affection! Ah, in any case, she was worried that her daughter has been in bad company. A grown man of mysterious origins and Magecraft, one that even Merlin couldn't decipher, suddenly matching up alongside Mordred? Surely, any sane ruler would've thrown a fit, and at best, put him under massive scrutiny.

However, her instincts told her otherwise. This was a fine, strong young man in the prime of his life, and dedicated to Mordred at the very least, if not the Kingdom of Britain. The look in his eyes whenever he gazes over to Mordred is never a lie, not even a drop of impure feelings in them. To her daughter, he must appear as dazzling as a prince charming.

If he is a prince, then what of her, the king? He certainly has a keen sense of politics and all its intangibles, making him a good match for Mordred who excels in military affairs. To be honest, leaving the country to the pair of them, uncaring on who's actually ruling and who's the consort, will be a good and safe idea, despite the other nobles' misgivings. With his intellect, what kind of king and father does he think she is?

Come to think of it, what did Mordred say about their future once again? How does she know of...?

\- Twitch.

She has to clench her palm to avoid yelling out her suspicion.

' _Of course! He's the person who told her!'_

There's no other possible solution to the question. Mordred basically claims everything she knows was taught by this man. Then, doesn't that directly means he's the one who foretold that dark future? How does he know? Who is he, really?

Her eyes narrow as her gaze drills into the back of Shirou.

The worst case scenario is... that he's a person who's been pulling the strings of her recent headaches. Mordred's return, the Roman invasion, the battle with Scáthach and Galahad, Lancelot's and Guinevere's betrayal, Vivian's escape... could he be the one who instigated it? He certainly has the ability to do so... but why is he here, then? Why stay in the figurative lion's den while he can control things from afar? Or is this also a part of his strategy?

If so... should she kill him now?

Currently, they're so close together that with a bit more power, even Altria's breath can reach his neck. Just a split second, that's all she needs. A twist of the neck, amplified with Prana Burst, will take even less than that. He's certainly skilled, more so than Mordred, but a surprise attack like this has felled men and women greater than him.

She reaches out with her hands, magic energy filling every fiber of her being.

' _Slowly... Slowly, now...'_

She delicately tries to suppress her use of magic energy, fearing he'll sense the incoming attack. Carefully, stealthily... It's the longest she has ever spent to utilize Prana Burst, as if she starts to learn how to breathe and walk again gingerly, scrutinizing over every detail, not allowed to miss a single step.

\- Click.

"Ah, good afternoon, Mordred," Shirou greets, turning around while smiling.

Her daughter steps through the opened door, all chirping and hopping as usual. She greets them both enthusiastically, strangely happy after being told to accompany their new state guest, an elven royalty and her human husband. She chats to them casually, not really mentioning the results of her talk with them, which indicates it's not really going anywhere important. The most likely scenario is they're here to support their bid against Nimue and whatever she has in store, or maybe they're here just for a holiday. Who knows?

Altria quietly keeps her hands back, loosening her expression as to not let Shirou and Mordred know what's really going on in her mind.

Shirou speaks about something to serve the two guests as refreshments, as well as negotiating with Mordred what portion would she like for dinner. Looking at the two of them like this, talking away so carefreely without a burden in the world like a married couple living in the countryside, Altria wonders if her judgement has been overly harsh.

Yes, Shirou has just made the 'Suspicious' list. However, without any solid evidence, without any witnesses, and against all statements, his actual place in that list is far, far down, smack bottom, even lower than some of those useless nobles that keep pestering her rule after she took over from her own father, Uther. With that thought, she releases the breath she didn't realize she was holding, as all tension leaves her body.

After appeasing Mordred with several promised treats, Shirou bids her farewell and kisses her lightly on the lips, seeming uncaring of Altria's presence. Mordred then quickly bows to her, not even giving a thought to a hug, and runs out of the room with the same enthusiasm she entered with earlier.

Shirou turns to his table, tidying it up and piling the papers into a neat bundle.

"Your Majesty, I think my research here is still inconclusive. I shall peer over them in further detail in my chambers. Is that alright with you?"

Altria nods, not really seeing a reason to refuse.

Before he reaches for the doorknob, however, with his back still turned to her, he warns, "By the way, Your Majesty, I'd like to advise you against that."

"Hm? Against what?" Altria asks.

"Against **trying to kill me from the back**."

\- Thump. Thump. Thump.

At that moment, she feels her neck separated from her body, followed by all of her limbs, then her torso sliced up into thin slices of meat.

Shirou leaves the room as the king retches from his killing intent, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

Altria ponders silently, even as several other people softly debates about what direction should her kingdom take next. The two state guests are present, the petite elven girl excitedly puts forward her opinions with a childish glint in her eyes, although her tone remains polite. Her husband, meanwhile, is way more passive, but his eyes are full of focus not only on the plan put on the table, but also for the others' body language and reaction.

Mordred and Tristan also accompany them, each with their own precious take on the situation. It's obvious now that the Holy Grail quest is about to fail, or in danger to, which means risking the lives of three women who know nothing about the risk they're taking. Mordred is raring to go and rescue them, by force if necessary, because her prized student is one of those three women, while Tristan is calmly analyzing the situation, but his eagerness to depart is comparable to Mordred's. It seems he's keen on redeeming himself after a series of defeats of late, at least in his eyes.

It's a good thing Gawain isn't here to worry about his little sister, or else her mind would've exploded with all the stress.

' _It's all because of this man!'_

She stealthily glares at the redhead sitting next to her, between Mordred and herself, taking control of the topic of discussion. It seems the things he's suggesting have all been very good and effective, because Tristan and Imina both nods in approval, but anything he says, or any other person says, simply comes into one ear and goes out of the other.

Her body involuntarily shivers as she remembers the killing intent he directed at her.

To put it simply, it was monstrous.

' _No, I'm wrong. 'Monstrous' implies 'strength that is close to monsters'. I've killed monsters. I've tamed monsters. Even my Knights have also done the same. His level... is vastly different...!'_

Indeed, as the word 'monster' implies the wild mindless beings which descended from old stories and empowered by them. They're an abberration of the natural order, despite seemingly intelligent and structured at first glance. Orcs, goblins, sirens, ghouls... they act as if they have a purpose, sometimes together as a group. Does that imply intelligence, of an acknowledgement that they possess a skill to communicate with each other to gain an advantage? No, they simply band together on instinct in order to achieve their goals first, even if their own species stands in their way.

That is the knowledge that is common, taught to all nobles and magi as a way to prepare them to fight against the members of the Reverse Side of the World. Sometimes, several detached force from there appear here, causing chaos and wreaking havoc, and their behavior is certainly consistent with the explanation above.

However, as a king, Altria knows better.

Those beings that come here can't even be considered footsoldiers for an invading army. They're just stragglers, weaklings that are forced out of their own territory due to not possessing the strength necessary to simply _survive_. Thus, they escape here, to the Outside World, where living is considerably easier. Many monster-slayers pride themselves on the number of beasts they slaughter, unaware that they're gloating on killing what amounts to dying beggars in that world.

The _true monsters_ , though... They're on another league entirely.

An example can be observed across the table from her seat. The elves, long portrayed as the fierce guardians of the forest, possesses strength far beyond what a normal human can achieve. Her instincts are screaming at her that this weak-looking adorable girl, with her sapphire hair and lingering baby fat in her cheeks, can equal Merlin in combat alone.

The level of bloodlust Shirou levelled at her was at a level she couldn't even comprehend. With that difference in strength, she's sure she'd be dead before she knew it if she went through her impulse of eliminating him. It's quite possible her body would still swing the blade or clench the arm she'd use to kill him, even as her head rolls on the ground. Or perhaps the vision she experienced would be true, that her body would be minced meat without being able to react in the slightest?

And this person is supposed to be her son-in-law?

She keeps the silence she maintained since the start of the discussion.

The scariest part of all that is that she's powerless to do anything, both physically and politically. The first part is obvious, because never before in her life she has frozen in front of an opponent ready to kill her. At that time, even a child could've walked into the room and stab her heart with a knife. Of course, Avalon's presence meant such attacks wouldn't mean anything, but she has a strong suspicion that Shirou was able to overcome even that.

The second one... is more complicated. It only occurred to her a few moments ago as she thought of him that she had no reason to publicly antagonize him. During his short stay in Camelot, he's well-liked in public, considered a humble, hard-working man whom their princess met beyond the reaches of the throne. There's already a few rumors circulating around, speculating on their story: how they met, how they fell in love together, what adventures they did together...

The first time that was reported to her, she chuckled, thinking how easy it would be to transition between her rule and the next if the candidates were already well-known and well-supported. Now, in hindsight, this can only be a disaster for her.

\- Twitch.

Her leg shifts abruptly as Mordred's own leg somehow reaches from under the table to nudge hers. Her daughter silently signals with her eyes that she should take more part in the discussion, eager to listen to her own opinions.

She smiles and obliges, muttering a few neutral words here and there to judge the extent of the conversation, or to be precise, the considerably large part she missed due to her own musings. She has to be careful not to appear she has ignored their words early on or she'll damage her image as a ruler, but she manages, just.

As she listens to the responses to her inquiries, she continues her own parallel thoughts.

Wasn't she being too unrealistic and antagonistic? Wasn't she the one who threatened him first, even if she didn't verbally warn him first? Wasn't it only natural he'd respond as such? If it was her, she'd forgo the warning and simply behead anyone that directed any form of killing intent from right behind her. in that aspect, he could be considered kind.

'' _Kind'?_ _ **'Kind'?**_ _That amount of killing intent can be called 'kind'?!'_

She screams at herself in her mind, arguing with her own positive outlook at things.

He has never shown any signs of evil thoughts, not in front of her, nor whenever she secretly spied on his interactions with Mordred. His attitude might've been a touch reserved and secretive, but that was to be expected when one was in a foreign environment meeting foreign acquaintances, no? Now that her more rational mind has returned, all of her paranoia from before reduces significantly.

Yes, that'll do. She shouldn't think too negatively on him. She may have not forgiven him for his slight against her, chiefly because of her position as his future father-in-law and the current king, but at the very least, she can now stop glaring at him as if he's the harbinger of disaster.

Then, what should she do next? Should she distance herself from him, carefully observing him like how she'd treat a wild lion? Or should she confront him instead, admitting what she has done and asking why did he do what he did?

' _Ugh, I'm confused...'_

For now, she's decided, she'll continue acting like normal. Their relationship has been a touch formal, further than Mordred's own with her, and she intends for it to stay that way, at least for now. She needs to ask Merlin to investigate him further, not just his past, but also his current abilities and plans for the future. Only by then she'll feel secure to plan for the next step.

' _But having someone that strong on my side... Hmm... That's very tempting...'_

She shelves that thought to be reviewed in the future.


	38. Conversation of One's Lovers

**Heya', fellas! This is a sudden fast upload! Thank you for the loyal readers who endured my short hiatuses these last few months. I don't think I can sustain this schedule, but hopefully there won't be sudden breaks like last time. As summer break is winding down over here, strangely, the air has become colder and crisper, which has exactly improved my writing mood. Thank God.**

 **Also, I _finally_ was able to get an HD version of Presage Flower. Thank you guys who sent me tips and info about the movie. It's a great production, as expected from Ufotable. Although I wanted to say something regarding TYPE-MOON's production and release schedule, with all the projects they have line up and constantly delayed...**

 **Now, for the mailbag:**

 **JustARandomAnon: I will write lemons when I've finished setting up my AO3 account. If I have, I'll announce it in either my Bio or in these Author's Notes. You can damn sure wait for it! Though I think you'll enjoy this chapter greatly...**

 **PervyPanda:** **Even if there weren't, Merlin would've invented them for restricted use. I admit I purposefully left some modern devices in there for conveniences' sake.**

 **Broken Paladin: I'm not sure you've read my PM or not, so I'll give my answer to your request right here.** **For posting a story in my universe, please go ahead. However, can you send me the story first so I can correct any potential mistakes regarding how the universe works? I do want this series to be a multi-universe fanfics, but I want to make sure there's no contradiction in the stories.**

 **Guys, if you're interested in posting spin-off of this series like Broken Paladin, then you can follow my suggestion above, okay? Just send over your work! Don't be shy!**

 **Now, enjoy the story. Review, favorite, and follow, as always.**

* * *

\- Thud. Thud. Thud.

Three shadows of bodies land smoothly at the bottom of the tower with minimal fuss. There are no one here who'll scream like a coward as they fall uncontrolled, because the three women possess enough bodily control to put themselves in a position out of harm's way. Gareth does leak out a small squeak, however, but only because she lands on an odd patch of slick liquid, making her landing slightly lopsided.

Cecilia, meanwhile, keeps on surveying the ceiling from where they dropped from, wary of Galahad's arrival. She gazes at the hazy, fluid surface full of inky darkness, ever-shifting while defying gravity and logic at the same time. The shards of stone stairs aren't visible anymore, merely small dark specks floating around in their own vagueness.

Filvis is the first one to react, merely fractions of a second after her feet touch solid ground.

Lifting both her hand, she draws a complicated net of runes and other obscure characters, blanketing the entire faux-ceiling with a multitude of barriers, lethal and otherwise. She pierces the ground with her rapier up to halfway up the blade, before entwining the complicated defense setup with the hilt of the rapier, encompassing it in a similar white glow.

Without even doing a once-over, she grabs both of Cecilia's and Gareth's arms and urges them forward.

"Come on. Don't pay attention to that guy." Eyes firmly aimed in front, she says, "If we secure the Holy Grail first, he'll be rendered powerless."

While breaking into a run, Gareth asks, "How can you be so sure?"

"His powers come from the Grail itself," Cecilia answers in place of her sister. "I'm not clear how, but after our fight, that was the analysis that came out. Lord Merlin was the one who did the magic energy signature analysis." Eyeing the knight lady, she inquires, "Perhaps Sir Gawain or Sir Tristan can provide a more concise explanation? I'm not familiar with the procedure in this things..."

"Enough talking, Cecilia."

The blonde young woman quiets down at the unusually tense voice of her sister.

The direction they are running to is basically dictated by the layout of the floor. The walls are there, unlike the main floor they first entered, but they aren't the precise masonry used to construct the Corbenic Castle. Instead, they look like natural stones, similar to ordinary caves, save for the elegantly glossy black surface glittered with small glowing particles.

"Whoa!"

"Hey!"

"Kyaaah!"

Without any warning, the path they're running on breaks away in front of them, causing the three of them to skid to a stop in a hurry.

Filvis clicks her tongue at the unexpected obstacle.

In front of their very eyes, the floor turns sharply down at 90° into what tantamount to as a cliff. The chasm in front of them isn't impassable, but the problem... or _problems_ , to be exact, are the floating platforms and hanging bars and suspiciously smooth holes lined up across the space, from the walls, and moving independently of each other.

She has no doubt those 'holes' contain something she'd rather not think about.

Closing her eyes, she begins to focus her magic powers, letting them course through her Magic Circuits, before a tap on her shoulders distracts her.

She raises her eyebrows at Cecilia's posture in front of her, with the younger girl's back facing her and her arms facing Filvis's position.

"What are you trying to do, Cecilia?"

With a hard look in her eyes, one that doesn't leave any room for negotiation, Cecilia states, "We need to conserve your energy, in case something happens. Please, Sister, hop onto my back."

"Through _that_?" She replies sarcastically, pointing with her chin at the maze of deadly falls and traps. "I'd rather spend more energy than endanger you, little sister." Patting Cecilia's golden locks, she says, "I appreciate the gesture, but it'll only introduce unnecessary risks."

"Not with me here."

She lets fly a questioning glare at Gareth. "What-"

Gareth grabs the scuff of Filvis's dress, and _throws her in the air_.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Apologizing at her sister in her heart, Cecilia jumps lightly forward, speedily navigating the first of moving platforms. Gareth takes a different route, turning to the side and using the hole-less walls with the hanging bars from the ceiling to traverse the chasm.

Cecilia ducks under the first volley of large arrows, almost the size of ballista ammunition, before breaking into a faster sprint to take the next jump. She catches Filvis in mid-air with a princess carry, and before Filvis can finish screaming, she throws her back into the air as she lands in Gareth's direction.

Fingering her pockets, she accurately throws several round grenades into the incoming holes, now not only coming from the walls, but from the ceiling as well. However, her platform breaks as soon as she puts power in her legs to throw the explosives, but the sudden drop doesn't faze her in the slightest as the grenades make their way smoothly into the holes, blowing up and disabling the mechanism inside.

Her pendulum shoots out from between her fingers, tangling itself on one of the hanging bars going up, breaking her fall. Using the momentum, she launches her body forward, far enough to cover a quarter of the chasm's width, and smoothly lands on one of the more solid-looking platform.

Meanwhile, still screaming, Filvis is butted forward courtesy of Gareth's strong kick to her posterior, bouncing forward into a large gap between platforms. Her eyes widen to the maximum as she panics and kneads more magic power to activate one of her levitation spell, but Cecilia's pendulum wraps around one of her arm and swings her forward once again. Because she has a more stable platform, this time, Filvis is swung across the whole chasm, landing roughly on the solid ground at the end and tumbling several times.

After confirming Filvis's safety, the two of them casually dodge, swerve, and jump their way across, their peak physical condition allowing them relatively safe passage. Cecilia quietly regrets having disabled the arrow traps along the way, because they may buy them several precious seconds if Galahad gets through Filvis's setup, but she lets bygones be bygones and steels herself for the scolding she's sure to receive from Filvis.

Sure enough, a choking sound is heard from in front of her where Gareth has arrived sooner than her, and is being shaken about by Filvis who's screaming curses at her.

* * *

Somehow, the sun manages to pierce through the clouds among these cloudy days, beating its heat on Imina's brows.

He hasn't stepped foot in the Outside World for a good few years, which in turn translate into a few decades in this side of the world. As far as he can remember, Britain's weather hasn't been great back then either, always raining or dark with clouds. Granted, it might be his dark memories of his younger years betrayed him, since he's not born in Britain, merely visited it during one of Ellis's trips.

He banishes the memories of bloodied bodies and burning houses away from his mind as one of the Knights of the Round Table approaches him.

Under the balcony where they both stand lies one of the kingdom's battalion, all suited up and ready for war. It's been almost a year since their last deployment to fight both fronts in the north and south against the Picts and Romans, and the time was well spent to replenish the troops' resources, judging by the shiny plates and armor they don.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Gawain asks, proud of the sight. "This time, we will not be wrong-footed again like last time."

"Not enough."

"Pardon?"

"I said _it's not enough._ " Imina stresses the last three words.

Gawain's eyebrow twitches, but he forces his face to remain civil and polite by asking, "Will you please elaborate on the troops' shortcomings? Surely, you must have a great opinion to open your mouth in the first place."

The bitter tone in his voice is apparent, despite his calm demeanor, but Imina doesn't seem to mind. Or, rather, he finds that kind of attitude beneath him, as that was how his enemies often talked.

Before he lopped their heads off.

"Where's the runes carved into their equipments? How are their magic combat ability? What kind of magical beings have they killed, and how strong are they?" Imina rattled on questions after questions, none of which Gawain can readily answer. Eyeing the knight carefully, the young man states, " _You_ may be ready, but not them. They'll die in vain, like lambs into slaughter."

Gritting his teeth at the critique, Gawain lashes out, "Then what can you do on your own?! Surely, o mighty warrior, you are capable _so_ much more than these ordinary men?!"

"Yes," Imina flatly agrees. "I've seen what beings like Lady Nimue can do, and I specialize in killing other magical species. Would you like to see?"

Gawain silently grips the hilt of Galatine, glaring at him.

Ignoring the clear killing intent washing over him, Imina continues, "There will be beings that can't be hurt by steel or even simple magical attacks. What we need is quality, nor quantity. If you understand, then waste no time threatening me, and start assembling a more competent force. Not much, just half a dozen would do."

"You really like going into other people's place and ordering them around, do you, brat?" Gawain growled, furious. "If you're not a guest of the court, I'd have-"

"-killed me, yes, yes. I'm used to it."

"You little..."

A strong, vice-like grip clasp onto Gawain's shoulder, making him reflexively tried to pull out Galatine, but Shirou smoothly negates his strength and forces the sword back onto the sheath.

"S-Sir Shirou!" Gawain exclaimed, surprised the redhead is there without him sensing his presence.

Shirou smiles politely and returns the greeting, saying, "Pardon me, but His Majesty requires your presence, Sir Gawain. Please make haste."

"Yes, of course!" Lightly flustered at the sudden change of events, Gawain departs, but not before shooting a dirty glare over his shoulder at Imina, who ignores him in favor of speaking with Shirou.

Once the blonde knight has gotten out of earshot, Shirou sighs. "You know, it's not that bad if you try to be civil at people, Imina."

"For that ass-kisser? No, thanks." The man in question leans on the balcony, eyes sweeping the blue sky. "You've seen how he changes his tune once it's you speaking. To be frank, if you're not who you are, without your relationship with members of royalty, he'd treat you the same, wouldn't he?"

"Sure. You're 100% correct. But what is more effective: making him happy and avoiding grudges or doing what you just did and having to watch that guy for the rest of your stay here? Surely, I don't need to answer that question."

Imina nods. "Duly noted."

"Oi, get serious," Shirou warns, noticing Imina's lack of energy. "These moments are critical for the next fight. At the very least, make it so that your wife's stay over here is comfortable." As Imina's eyes shine differently at the mention of Ellis, Shirou strikes home another point. "Besides, if you're hurt, she'll worry and cry, you know? Women are most ugly with tears flowing down their cheeks, so don't make her sad."

Imina notices Shirou's intent slightly too late to counter, merely clicking his tongue in defeat.

"Tsk, what a low blow, using Ellis's name like that."

"If you're cooperative from the start, I wouldn't have to resort to such methods, blockhead."

"Fine, fine, I'll play nice. Should I pick a bouquet of flowers for him?"

"You'll get noticed for a different reason if you do that!"

Changing the topic, Imina asks, "It still doesn't change the fact the army's going to get annihilated, for sure. What's your plan for that?"

"Not much different than yours, I'm afraid," Shirou grins sheepishly. "Besides, Merlin's preparing a wide-area 'initiation' spell, so the quality part should be taken care of."

Imina's expression as he hears those words darken.

"That process... Isn't it taboo?" The young man quietly inquires.

Shaking his head, Shirou calmly replies, "It's different than the one used on you. No, don't give me that look, I did my research," Shirou cuts off Imina's curious words, "Plus, I consulted Ellis as well. It _should_ be a painless and beneficial exercise, and I'm saying 'should' only because we haven't tried it yet. It'd succeed, and I'm on hand if things go wrong." Patting the younger man's shoulder to calm him down, he says, "Don't worry. It''ll go well."

"I hope so. Do you know the details of the 'initiation' process I experienced?"

Shirou makes an expression as if he's just eaten something sour.

"Yes, unfortunately. It made me wanted to go and do the job myself, if only you hadn't eliminated those scums." Joining Imina in leaning against the balcony, Shirou bitterly speaks, "Something like that... It's my dream that the next generation won't ever have to experience it. Therefore, this is a battle we must win."

"I'll lend you my full power." Imina's body language is full of determination. "You can count on my words."

Shirou smirks at the other guy's declaration. "Yeah, I know. Besides, the look on Ellis's face when we talked about your past... Wow, you should've seen that. I'm going to have nightmares tonight!"

"Heh... I see that almost everyday, smartass."

* * *

"Lord Merlin, how goes our preparations?"

Gawain, fresh from being incensed by Imina's crude conversation, leans over a map of troops placement with Altria and Merlin. He was called over for his opinions, which he took gratefully. Anything to get away from that uncouth youth.

Unusually for the white-haired mage, Merlin shows a complicated expression. "I'm happy, partially. The progress on the Magecraft-enhanced weapons and troops is slow. I'd like more time for development, but... The situation is difficult. The men are pumped, but I'm afraid we're just sending them to their deaths if they're not reinforced properly."

"Will she use monsters, or Magecraft? Merlin, you know her well," Altria notes. "Not Nimue, of course; the person I meant is Vivian. Now there is a good chance she was taken over by Nimue, could a shred of her personality remain? A subdued conscience, perhaps, or even just any kind of habit?"

Merlin shakes his head, sadness apparent in his eyes. "Nimue is too powerful to leave such gaps, Your Majesty. To correct your statement, I _am_ familiar with both Ladies of the Lake, but not to the extent of Sir Shirou and Her Highness Mordred." Eyeing Excalibur and Avalon attached to Altria's hip, he continues, "When you received your armaments, I analyzed them and gotten a glimpse on how fairy magic works. I may have not been able to use them, but from what I understand, it is possible for them to completely assimilate into a person's body."

"...leaving just the outer skin? Like a... costume?" Gawain inquires.

"Pretty much, yes."

"That's awful..."

Merlin eyes him harshly. "Sir Gawain, leave such pity aside! We magi have always been determined to walk alongside the line of death, and we accepted the risk. _Do not look at me with those eyes!_ " He growls.

Gawain hurriedly bows. "My apologies."

"Now, now, let us focus back on our meeting," Altria defuses the situation. "How does the timetable look on that troop development?"

"Not good, at least to make them reliably perform in the field," Merlin admits. "If this goes on, I'd rather focus on quality, rather than quantity. Regarding your first question, Your Majesty, it'd be wise to be cautious of both."

"Tsk, how troublesome."

Sweeping his eyes across the table, Gawain remarks, "Aside from the enemies' troop composition, do we have any information regarding their position? I loathe the idea of being surrounded by enemies. The sooner we strike, this assuming we're taking an offensive stance, the better."

"We're canvassing the entire kingdom as we speak. My students have been tasked to spread one of my latest invention: a spy virus. It should be transmitting since a few months ago, and the hard part now is to sort the information gathered to find the real gem."

"A 'virus'? What's that?" Gawain asks, tilting his head in confusion.

"It's some sort of tiny pollen, but much smaller than that. Can you picture it? Tiny living organisms, invisible to the naked eye, parasitting itself onto the host's body, allowing us access to everything they know? I swear, this will be the invention of the millennia!" Merlin cackles in delight, unnerving Altria.

"'Everyone'? Including us?" She asks suspiciously. "Merlin, isn't that breaching people's privacy?"

"Ah, that's the problem with this method," Merlin answers cooly. "They inherently are very weak, only able to safely attach itself without dying to common people, who aren't anything special. Ah, no, no, come to think of it, if they possess some objects that are blessed or cursed, those things may also obstruct the virus." He places his fingers onto several spots on the map, circling them. "To be frank, that's not how I intend this to work. The opposite, in fact."

"What do you mean?"

Merlin grins. "Places where Nimue is likely holing up in will take a large area, and very well defended against magical measures. Which means... there's going to be 'gaps' or 'blank spaces' in the virus's spread where it dies across a wide area. We can narrow those places down as potential hiding spots."

Both Altria and Gawain exclaim their surprise and approval towards that idea.

"That's a great idea, Lord Merlin! Congratulations for another achievement!"

"Fantastic, Merlin. As always."

However, moments later, Altria narrows her eyes in suspicion. "You... are not using the still-active virus to peep on women, are you?"

"Of course not! Who do you think I am?!" Merlin fakes a hurt look, only to receive cold stares from both blondes. "Ah... no... of course not..."

"We shall talk about this later. For now, which places have you determined to be a potential location?"

"Ah, yes," Merlin nervously stutters. "T-There's several location that y-yielded the best probability. It's here, here, here, and here," he says while pinpointing four spots on the map with wooden pins.

Gawain eyes the southernmost pin, muttering, "Londinium..."

Merlin extends one index finger in the air. "Er... yes, but that place is strange."

"Strange? How?" Altria asks.

"The virus doesn't die there. It's more... more like it just goes haywire and lays dormant. It's similar to how it'll act when there's an error in the programming, so I assume there's a strong leyline there that's unchecked and wreaking havoc with the system."

"This anomaly doesn't interest you, Lord Merlin?" Gawain piques. "Among the four, there's only one of them that's different. Surely it's the most suspicious one?"

Shaking his head, Merlin refutes his claim. "It probably is true, but that's not accounting for a magus in the works. With a leyline like that, which I still haven't confirmed of its existence, the first step in creating a Workshop is to reroute the planet's energy to power one's own for efficiency's sake. There's no way a trained magus would..."

As Merlin's words tail off, the other two people in the room stay silent, letting him think. Usually, when the buffoon is this serious about something, he can produce amazing ideas and breakthroughs.

"Unless... she's no magus?" Merlin mutters, still loud enough for Altria and Gawain to hear. "If Nimue has assimilated her so much... if she's no longer human... then there's no need to use the leyline! Sir Gawain! You're a genius!"

\- BANG!

In his exhuberance, Merlin tries to hug Gawain, but the knight deftly dodges to one side and lets the mage tumbles down to the floor. Altria nearly giggles, but holds back and covers her mouth with her palm, her eyes squinting in amusement.

Not caring about the pain, Merlin immediately concludes, "There goes your location, Your Majesty! We can storm them anytime... Oh, right, not _anytime_ , but right after my production line is ready!"

Clasping her hand together, Altria looks solemn in her comprehension.

"Finally... Guinevere, Lancelot... Wait for me." She clenches her palms into fists, excitedly trembling. "Both of you, finish up your preparations. We leave immediately. Oh, and summon Sir Shirou, Mordred, and our guests to accompany us.

"We will take back what is ours."

Both men straighten up their conduct after witnessing their liege's determined air.

* * *

" _We're departing first thing in the morning. Prepare youself as best as you can."_

Tristan's words echo in my ear as I stroke Mordred's hair away from her sleeping face.

The cool morning air feels chilly against my naked skin, but I pay it no bother. Magi and magic users rarely get sick, mainly due to constant training in mana circulation, especially when our Magic Circuits are active as we increase our body temperature.

Mordred moans cutely in her sleep, snuggling her face against my palm, eliciting a smile form my lips.

And, of course, as ever, _it_ comes to ruin the mood.

My vision distorts heavily, and before I can react, I find myself in a familiar grey-white room filled with shards of polygons.

I watch the hovering blue sphere of energy above me with mild irritation.

Now, Alaya rarely summons me, especially into this room, so this must be an important message it's trying to tell me. These words are urgent by their nature, but I can't help but twitch my eyebrow in annoyance after being taken away from Mordred's side.

\- The seeds haven't been planted yet.

Ah, she... no, _it_ is using this tone, now? When Alaya decides to forgo its human personification, it means this is something very serious.

However, I can't help but feel that first sentence signifies the relative sof this following conversation.

\- The quality of the human race will drop. We must increase its quality now.

"I'm not going to impregnate Mordred _before a war_ , alright?!"

There, I've said it.

To clear things in my mind, I try to investigate what makes Alaya in such a hurry.

When it said 'the quality of the human race', of course it meant how a single human being's Conceptual Weight decrease as humanity's number increases. Just like the decline of Magecraft and its increasing rift with True Magic, the more humans that are born, the lesser their potential will be. For Alaya, this isn't a problem precisely because it _is_ the Human Order.

To surmise, Alaya is the source of humanity's power against the World. Despite its near-limitless power, it still isn't infinite. This, compounded with more and more humanity leaving the domain of the Root and the gods, weakens humanity significantly as their numbers increase. That said, the source is still one and the same, and all it has to do is spread its power more thinly.

What it's concerned about is that in the near future, there won't be a human vessel strong enough to support my reincarnation into that body. The strength of my soul will completely overwhelm it during its development in the womb and kill the fetus instantly.

\- Precisely.

"Your bad habit of reading someone else's mind is still not cured, huh?"

\- You are _me_. I am _you_. Is it not inevitable?

"Shut up and let me think."

Alaya wants me to spread my _seeds_ , as in semen and other genetic materials, so that future generations can carry traits that support Heroic Vessels. I have no doubt of the implications behind this sudden push from it, as it'll try to make me mate with as many women as possible. In other words, it wants a harem for me.

To be honest, that particular idea that is the dream of all man... isn't that appealing to me.

Even back then during my first deployment, the memories of that strong-willed blonde queen of Babylonia still haunts me to this day. No, perhaps 'haunt' is too strong a word, but I still feel her presence inside me. Maybe it's only fleeting love, but the loyalty is still there, especially now with Mordred.

\- How strange. Have your prohibitions to such things not been removed?

"It's not 'removed', but 'diluted' by the amount of 'Shirou Emiya' you blended together to create me, this SHIROU. Have you forgotten?"

\- I do not forget.

"Sure, sure."

Indeed, it's strange. We Heroic Vessels _do_ have emotions, unlike the failed Counter Guardian program, since Alaya realized that while it did have its risks, the potential gain far outweighs the negatives. To be able to laugh, to love, to be angry, to be happy, to care for others.

Maybe it's these emotions that are holding me back? Alaya's concerns are logical, but I'm not ready to _cheat_ on Mordred, perhaps not in this life. I don't feel confident enough to avoid her wrath, for one, but also I don't have the heart to see her cry once again.

"No. Not in this life, Alaya. I can't."

\- ...

Alaya is unnervingly silent.

This is bad. This is _bad_. This is _**bad**_.

It can force me to do anything it wants. It won't be a physical constrain, but with mental operation, this inhibition I have can be completely eliminated.

"No, no, no! You can't do that! I won't let you!" I panic and yell at it, heart pumping like crazy. "Not to Mordred! Please, just-"

\- Understood.

"-reconsi... What?" Stunned, I gawk at the floating blue sphere. "Un... 'understood'? you are agreeing with me?"

\- I will have you work hard in the next deployment.

"Er... Alright, I guess?" I am still slightly surprised that it agrees with me just like that, with no major strings attached. "Thank you for your understanding."

Damn, now I sound like some salaryman.

"...rou?"

As our conversation has reached an end, the grey-white room fades and returns me to reality.

In front of me is a concerned Mordred, lightly shaking my shoulders.

To reassure her, I smile and say, "Ah, just dozed off there for a second."

"Are you alright?" Her beautiful face presses closer, trying to observe any signs of ill doing. Inadvertently, her pert breasts presses up onto my chest as she straddles me.

Her mouth parts as words come out, but I just realize how tempting those thin, moist lips look.

"Shirou, you know you can- Kya!"

I push her down as I kiss her lips, silencing her words with my actions.

That morning passes by sweetly, accompanied by Mordred's cute voice.

* * *

"Ah~❤ Ah~❤ Ah~❤ Ah~❤ Ah~❤ Ah~❤ Ah~❤ Ah~❤ Ah~❤ Ah~❤ Ah~❤ Ah~❤"

Mordred can't keep the embarrassing noise from escaping from her mouth, mainly because Shirou seems adamant he'll make her faint from pleasure. Her mind explodes in white every few seconds, losing control of her own body as it spasms and shivers and squirms uncontrollably like a maniac. Even the thought of the deployment later in the day has escaped her memory.

However, amidst the numbing pleasure, a particular subject escapes through the gaps in her consciousness.

She's feeling good. And from what Shirou has told her and sometimes showed on his face, he should be feeling good too. She may not have the same bombshell figure of Scáthach, but she's confident in her looks and the sexual skills Shirou ingrained in her the past few years.

Then... why does Shirou look so... _sad_?

He is actually nuzzling his face into Mordred's neck, gently licking it in the way that makes her _juuuusssstttt_ climax lightly, but a glance beforehand into his eyes revealed... emptiness. There isn't the usual passionate gaze that bellied hunger, or the analytical neutrality that seeks the best place to flip her switch the best.

It's almost... Yes, it's almost like he's escaping from something, seeking assurance from her body.

A part of her doesn't care the reason why. If the man who has given her everything, provided for her every needs, and the first person to recognize her as 'Mordred', not anything else, she'll give everything. Her body is a cheap price to pay.

But... if there's something that indeed made him like this... when did it happen? During his sleep? A nightmare, perhaps?

' _No... Ah~_ _T-There's no way... mngh... a nightmare c-can make him like thhiiiiissssssshhhhh...!'_

She curves her body as her mouth contorts into a silent scream as another climax wrecks her body.

Then... an entity powerful enough to cause him discomfort? That particular word must be an understatement, because this is the first time he acts like this around her. However, the more she thinks about it, the more it makes sense.

Coming to a conclusion, there's only one culprit in mind.

' _Alayaaaaaaaa...'_

She shouts and curses the name in her mind, because she still can't control her voice box and lips, which are now being sucked lovingly by her lover. The anger that this illusory being causes Shirou grief, however, gives her mind clarity over the mind-blowing ecstasy.

She barely knows the details between Shirou's deal with it. Through several Dream Cycles whenever she had sex with him, she realized how far apart Shirou's spiritual constitution was to a normal person's, including herself and Altria who had dragon's blood within them. It was almost to the point she could categorize him as inhuman, similar to those dwellers in the Reverse Side of the World.

However, from the snippets she witnessed, the influence Alaya had over Shirou was enourmous. Normally, it never affected Shirou this badly, but _something_ must've happened to make him like this. What could it be? it must be something precious to him...

' _Is... I-Is it me?'_

It's not a pompous statement from herself. For her, an originally emotionless homunculus who only knew emotions from her interactions with Shirou, vanity is now the furthest thing in her mind. No, what angers her so much after that particular realization is the fact she's now become his weakness, able to be exploited by someone else.

What has become of her now? She trained, and trained, and trained, even leaving Shirou after a particularly silly fight because she wanted to get stronger, all in order to help _him_. She didn't know what his goal was back then, nor did she know what she was supposed to do, but the fact he kept her from doing anything particularly meaningful or dangerous hurt her pride, thus she decided to fly the nest, so to speak.

And now, it has all come to nothing, if her speculations are correct.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

She howls like a beast as she climaxes together with her lover. Her vision is already starting to flicker, diving in and out according with her fading consciousness.

She reaches her hand out weakly, but just enough to wipe one tear away from Shirou's cheeks.

' _Shirou... Is that why you shed your tears? For... for... m-me...?'_

That is her last thoughts before she is sent back to the land of slumber.


	39. Meet Cute

**Wow, I'm amazed at what cold medicine can do for your imagination and work drive. Isn't it supposed to contain a calming agent? So how on earth is this chapter so quickly written and finished? Hmm...**

 **Anyway, hey, guys! It's another installment of HV-S01. Hope you enjoy your summer, and the previous chapters even more! Sadly, for me, summer means very little entertainment in non-World Cup years, since most of the sports I follow are on holiday. Plus, we've made it into 2nd place (in terms of reviews) in this site's Shirou X Mordred corner. Yay! Now if only anyone can recommend this story in TV Tropes... sob...**

 **Alright, now, let's take a look at the mailbag:**

 **Dragonjek:** **Hi, thanks for your review and continued support. I did show minute clues regarding SHIROU's development into his latest version. Perhaps I didn't make it clear enough, or maybe I didn't write enough about it. However, the contradiction you may notice is actually on purpose, showcasing SHIROU's conflicting transformation. It's not even going to be done in this story; I plan on developing his character through the sequels as well.**

 **Heaven's Thesis: Yes, it is. I'm a big fan of FROM, and I am actually beta-ing a story about Dark Souls called Fortune's Disfavored. Check it out, and don't forget to leave a comment there for my buddy SquareBlock!**

 **In the last chapter, yes, indeed there's a hint of Fem!Gilgamesh. However, I currently have no interest in writing a whole story about her, as I have many more future projects in store. What I can do is drop in a few hints here and there about her, since she was canonically (in this universe) SHIROU's first mission, and instrumental to his growth as a person. In a way, it mirrored how Gilgamesh and Enkidu's wife introduced him to human society and personal emotions, although of course it wouldn't go exactly as canon (the actual history as well as TYPE-MOON's take on it). If anyone wants to do a spin-off, then be my guest! Remember to notify me about it!**

 **Oh, and I would like to ask you guys for a favor. It seems like I've been missing a few Glossary parts here and there, so if there's something, either an object, Noble Phantasm, spell, and others which hasn't been covered by the Glossary or Character Sheet parts, please let me know. I'll update it as fast as I can. Naturally, this means I'm still delaying my promise of making a concise dictionary/file about this story... but that's what IRL stuff do to you. Thank you, and sorry.**

 **Now, read and enjoy. Don't forget to review, follow, and favorite!**

* * *

[GGGGRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!]

"Hou... Impressive." Nimue claps as she sips her cup of tea, sitting down relaxed amidst Guinevere's sharp, murderous glare. She lifts both her long, healthy legs onto the table, showing off a generous amount of the forbidden triangle normally hidden between her thighs. Not that she cares if anyone, even males in heat, sees them, because this isn't her body anyway.

Guinevere has long grown accustomed to ignoring Nimue's general callousness of using Vivian's body. All she wants is to rip this inhuman being's soul out of the body she's currently inhabiting, but that would be something way out of her league. It's for this moment she curses her uselessness. What can she do now? Pray?

' _Bah! It's useless to pray to God for this..._ _ **thing's**_ _demise.'_

She's not renouncing her belief in God, no. She inherently knows that separating Nimue from Vivian now is tantamount to killing the innocent woman. Her soul has simply passed away, devoured by Nimue, and erasing her presence from the body is no different than killing her.

Altria has always rebuked her for her inferiority complex towards others, claiming the 'intangibles' she provided was already enough for the king.

What 'intangibles'? Care? Love? Attentiveness? Motherly affection? Housekeeping? Can any of these traits save Vivian now?

No. Absolutely not.

And all of this happened because of her.

If Altria was here, she'd definitely get angry regarding that statement, but even a faceful of the king's cute face wouldn't be able to sway Guinevere from her belief. Who was it that selfishly decided she'd accompany Altria and become queen? Who was it that was content of being told not to do anything too strenuous, accepting her role as a political decoration? Who was it that in her own hypocrisy, despite her vow to remain loyal to her legal husband, performed adulterous relationship with a Knight of the Round Table?

Oh, she's going to kill herself after all of this is over, there is no doubt about that, if Nimue doesn't decide to dispose of her in the near future. Her own pride as a human being will not forgive her sins, even if her loved ones desired the opposite. Nay, even that statement isn't enough to describe her despair; if she can continue living on like nothing ever happens, the human called 'Guinevere' will no longer deserve to be categorized as 'human'.

Sitting more politely than Nimue, she's forced to accompany her to watch Galahad's exploits. Like Merlin, the witch is able to conjure a translucent layer that showcased things from afar, but the oddest thing is the moving images shown looks like taken directly from Galahad's point of view, completely unlike the teleconference tools Merlin installed in the conference room in Camelot.

' _Did she implant a device in the boy's brain? This... this monster...!'_

Bile starts to gather from the pit of her stomach, but she quells it down with sheer willpower.

Disgusting. Terrifying. Immoral. These words are floating inside her head regarding the tea-drinking woman in front of her. What atrocities can Nimue commit; what lines she won't hesitate to cross in search of power? Implanting a... yes, it can only described as a remote lens; a _lens_ inside a child's head is one of the, if not _the_ most disturbing thing she has ever head.

Regarding Merlin's experiments as a magus, she can only blame herself for not being knowledgeable enough about Magecraft – or even _care_ enough, for that matter – to avoid knowing the gruesome details. Yes, this is exactly the hypocrisy that drives her current suicidal desires; now that she has witnessed and understood the results, her desire to stop this madness is only matched by her own guilt for not acting even earlier so that more lives could be saved.

' _I'm so fuckin' useless...!'_

Her coarse language returns full force in her inner anger to herself, a result of her early peasant upbringing. It's only due to her beauty and apparent intelligence that she was able to receive a scholarship in Cornwall in her youth, which was where she met Altria, Kay, and Merlin.

What a person she is, huh? A fake noble who faked her whole life playing someone who's not herself, who's now showing a genuine concern over a child born from the man she loves and another woman as a result of her blending her public mask with her personal life.

Was she jealous of Elaine? For sure, she was. It seems her own body is barren, because her many affairs with Lancelot never birthed anything fruitful, yet here is Galahad, a fine boy who already has the skills of his father. According to Nimue, Lancelot slept with Elaine only once. _Once!_ Why did she was the one blessed with a child, and she wasn't?!

Her negative emotions were quickly banished by the kindness and gallantry of Galahad, a trait he shared with his father before his mental breakdown (courtesy of Nimue) and the two things that made Guinevere fell in love with Lancelot. He was a good kid, and now that she knew of Elaine's death, her motherly instincts was moved to serve Galahad as his mother, because he had no parental figure right after he was born since Lancelot was... preoccupied.

Seeing that boy in pain, roaring in frustration like a mad beast, tears her heart so much it nearly literally rip open her chest cavities. Especially because Guinevere is _here_ , _safe_ , and _drinking frickin' tea_ with her most hateful enemy.

She's looking through Galahad's eyes, showing her scenes which makes her instinctively covers her eyes every so often. The tower which she recognizes as a part of the Corbenic Castle is now rearranged so differently it looks like someone has played a joke with them. Psychedelic mazes, hidden traps, illogical laws of nature, and the race that has developed between him and the three women from Camelot leaves her not knowing who she should support.

In the first case, why has Nimue sent Galahad there in the first place? Is there a treasure, powerful beyond measure? Neither Nimue nor Galahad, before his departure, has told her, leading her to believe this is another sick joke from this blasted woman which will cause her aneurysm when it's revealed what it is.

Nimue is 'ooh'-ing and 'aah'-ing as if she's commentating on Galahad's actions, acting like an interested audience of a play. Guinevere forces her lips to stay shut before she can say anything that she'll regret, since this inhuman person is a master of twisting her own words into reality, but her eyes twitch in annoyance with every sound Nimue makes.

Silently, she eyes a closed door near them, where Lancelot is resting.

' _Please, dear... Pray for your- No,_ _ **our**_ _child to be safe; the three of us: you, me, and Elaine...'_

* * *

"Oooaaa..."

A low moan bounces from stone wall to stone wall, enhancing the creepy atmosphere around the ruins of Londinium.

Lancelot is perched on top of what used to be the London Wall, the majestic barrier which was the equal of the Hadrian Wall in its heyday. The black armor pulses according to his heartbeat as the red glint of his visor sweeps across the humid and cold plain. For Someone's Glory has never left his body ever since his battle with Merlin, the plates having fused into his skin. It wasn't a particularly painful process, since his nerve endings were already far too damaged by then, but the armor has grew even stronger, because it's now a living being like him.

As he mulls on Galahad's mission, his unrest is mirrored by the various chains dangling from his body, the hooks at the end swaying menacingly.

From the outside, it's hard to see whether Lancelot has retained enough of his sanity to care for his son at all, despite Galahad's affection towards him. It's jarring to see a seemingly well-bred youth taking care of a mute, deformed humanoid monster, because that's how Lancelot viewed himself.

Has it already been two years? Inside the helmet, he ponders his own life, but can only remember bits and pieces. It's not like there's a significant holes in his memories; the beautiful scenes, the dark scenes, the things in between... they're all _muted_ , as if the color is taken out of them, making them blurry.

Is he still Lancelot du Lac? Is he still the Knight of the Round Table? Is he still the hero his queen pined for? Or is he reduced to a lumbering berserker, obediently following whatever orders his current master requested of him?

To be honest, not even he himself knows the answer.

His sense of self has become weaker and weaker lately. There were some cases when he woke up – was it really waking up – he felt like nothingness. He himself is nothing. No identity, no name, no desire. Nothing.

\- ...

See? Just now... It happens again, the blank spot in his soul rippling out. Is he still Lancelot? Or someone else dreaming Lancelot's life, seeing things through his eyes?

' _Hm... How mysterious...'_

Where was he? Ah, yes, Galahad. _His son_. What is he doing now? He hazily remembered Nimue telling him to do something... _'Probably just an errand,'_ he justified in his muddled head. Now, who was his mother again? Was it the woman who's hanging around recently – _'Guinevere...'_ – or the faint shape of a woman submerged in liquid, calling for him?

In any case, all he is required to do now is stand guard. Don't think. Don't feel. Don't speak.

Just do it.

* * *

The hustle and bustle of Camelot breaks the early morning sleepiness, as even the sun has not risen yet. Hordes of equipment, horses, and clanking metal armor pass each other, creating a racket that falls short of Mordred's ears. Normally, the fast and erratic movement of torches in the darkness this close to her face would've made her dizzy, but all she can think of is Shirou's warmth which holds her close to the point of nearly suffocating her like a stuffed toy.

"S-Shirou? Is the nightmare s-still bothering you?"

"Yes," he flatly replies, burying his head into her hair and sniffing her scent, causing her to blush. "Please bear with it for a while longer while I calm myself."

Nervously smiling back, she replies, "S-Sure! Take forever if you need it..."

Once again, it merely confirms that whatever Shirou told her last night to reassure her has been a lie. Why hasn't he just told her the truth already? Is she unworthy? Is she considered _that_ untrustworthy with his secrets, as much as she has bared himself to him already?

However, her thoughts are instantly blown away by Shirou's following sentence.

"Mordred... Let's have lots of babies after this, alright?"

"EEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH?!"

Her shout brings some attention to them, but knowing their princess's personality, most pay them no mind soon after, going back to their tasks since King Arthur has ordered them to be speedy. Imina did raise an eyebrow for a reaction, but it's not until the better-hearing Ellis explained to him what Shirou said, after which he smirked and winks at the flustered Mordred.

Seemingly calm, Shirou continues his onslaught. "I know that your body is troublesome, but I have some ideas I can try with Merlin's assistance – and don't worry about him, I'll keep a close eye – that can help us. You've been secretly wanting a child, no? Let's fulfill that dream, one that I crushed in the past by saying 'no'."

"W... W-Wha... Wha-wa-wa-wa..."

"I know that- Mmmfff!" Shirou's words are caught at the palm of Mordred's hands who tries to recompose her thoughts, covering his mouth with her palm.

Red-faced, she hurriedly says in a low voice, "S-S-Shut up! Cecilia and the others are still fighting for their lives, and y-yet you're saying this i-indecent stuff! W-We'll talk about this later!"

When he nods, she lets him go, although his arms are still wrapped around her lithe waist.

Smiling mysteriously, he remarks, "You've grown, Mordred."

"Hm?"

"Usually, you're the one who's shouting around about our relationship, but the current shy you is cute as well." He nods sagely, saying, "Weren't you the one who recently jumped my bone-"

"Alright, alright, alright! J-Jeez! I'm a princess now, alright?!" Mordred squirms around his embrace, protesting heavily, "Even I have to behave myself... for you and Father..."

"Yup, very cute."

"S-Stop calling me cute!"

"Why not? If we're not out in the open right now, I'll _eat_ you without hesitation, you know." As a bonus, he sultrily blows a breath into Mordred's sensitive ears as a prank, just to see her reaction.

\- Poof!

The impact is immediate, as her red-as-tomato head blows a large amount of imaginary steam.

Altria narrows her eyes disapprovingly at their flirting in the midst of war preparations, but her rebuke is cut short as Merlin distracted her with a list of his planned manouvres. However, Shirou finally untangles himself from the blubbering Mordred to approach her, his face cold and professional as if his teasing earlier was just an illusion.

"Your Majesty, our preparations are complete. We can sortie at any time," Shirou respectfully reports, lightly bowing. A fluffy, white... creature... pops out from inside Merlin's robe to 'Fou! Fou!' angrily at him, which merely accentuates its cuteness, though Shirou seems to share its antipathy towards each other as he glares back, but gathers himself and tries to pat its cloud-like mane.

As expected, it tries to bite his fingers off, but he deftly avoided its jaws and instantly turns his fingers to stroke the bottom of its jaws. Instantly, it shivers in delight, and closese its eyes as it trembles in the pleasure Shirou's determined fingers are giving it.

"Oh? The two of you have made up?" Merlin wonders, eyes wide. "I thought you and it are... er, enemies?" He changes his description of Shirou and Primate Murder midway to avoid tipping Altria off about their existence in this plane, which Shirou appreciates by replying with a short 'Yes'.

"I never seems to be able to reach out to animals like Mordred can. She's far more attuned to nature than I ever was, so that's that." Shirou shrugs his shoulder, presenting his surrender of his cause, and finishes the white creature off by lightly scratching it behind its wonderfully soft ears.

\- Fou! Fou! Kyui!

It finally shakes himself off Merlin's constricting robes and jumps down, rushing towards Mordred's open arms.

"Well, I can do _that_ , at the very least."

Shirou silently thanks Alaya for giving him another tip to face Primate Murder in their latest session. Even if it's far more intelligent than it looks, it's still a slave to its own physical vessel's bodily pleasure, and thus easily pleased with the gestures he made earlier. No sense in agitating it, especially now in the delicate crossroads of destiny. Alaya suggested he should try and give it a neutral view towards him, instead of pouring out killing intent like it did before, so it wouldn't interfere with his duties whenever and wherever.

Altria coughs, clearing away her embarrassment after being caught peeping on her daughter's private time. Well, no one literally _caught_ her, per se, but a gleam in Shirou's eyes suggests otherwise. His face, though, is as hard to read as ever.

"Merlin, any other quirks of Londinium that you might be interested in sharing with us?" Altria inquires, eyeing her court mage.

Merlin disagrees. "No, nothing more than what I've included in the debrief. It's a simple abandoned Roman city, just rubble and ruins. The road is even in a good condition, and I've just confirmed it recently with my familiar. On the surface, at least, nothing is out of the ordinary."

"'On the surface', huh?" Shirou mulls. "What about _that_ part, Merlin? I recall something from your divination... Hmm... something to do with 'size' and 'pity'...?"

"Ah, no, no!" Merlin adamantly refutes, nervously chuckling. "Haha... It _is_ divination, Sir Shirou. Don't trust it too much, lest it draws you astray."

"Really? I seem to remember you're quite excited regarding _that_ Londinium, no?"

Altria is confused at whatever the hell they're talking about, gazing at her court mage for an explanation. "Merlin, I think it would be good for all that's present if you do not withheld any information, no matter how slight."

"Indeed, His Majesty is wise. Merlin, how about it?" Shirou presses on, a sly smirk on his face.

Of course, there's no way Merlin could've explained that the Londinium they were talking about wasn't the city, but a _singularity_ in the future. A future where Altria is... decidedly more _mature_ , to put it one way or the other.

"Ah, it's a simple joke between us two lowly men, Your Majesty. It's a jest, a jest!" Merlin tries to evade the question, sweating bullets. "It would be inappropriate for you to hear the words we meant, and it'd look bad for the others as well."

"Hmm..." Altria narrows her eyes suspiciously, extracting more and more droplets of sweat from Merlin's forehead under her stare. Finally, after several seconds, she relents, but with an additional warning. "Very well. We shall postpone this discussion until a later time, when only the three of us are present. At that time, I expect you to spill everything, Merlin. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes!" Merlin squeaks like a girl, rigidly saluting.

Altria leaves to inspect a group of soldiers, and Merlin shoots Shirou a dirty glare.

"Y-You...! You set me up, you devil!" Merlin whines, lowering his voice to avoid to be heard by the king. "Why do you have to open you damn moooouuuuuutttttthhhhhh!"

Shirou shrugs, an evil glint apparent in his eyes.

"Why not? You're the one who sneaked in that dangerous creature – and yes, I know it is Beast IV – inside a castle where Mordred and His Majesty lives. If it was me, I would've castrated you for the blunder." Eyeing the adorable white creature playing with Mordred, he says, "It's fortunate that Mordred gets along well with it, and I've recently found a way to avoid its antagonistic behavior towards me. You have to take most of the blame you caused, you careless old pervert."

Merlin shrinks back under Shirou's scathing gaze, his eyes drooping down due to guilt. "Eh... Y-Yeah... regarding that... Sorry!"

Waving him off, Shirou says, "In any case, has there been absolutely no contact at all from Filvis and the others? I thought one of your newer inventions took care of that, no? What's going on over there in Corbenic?"

Merlin shakes his head.

"The transponder died, seemingly due to some sort of jamming spell. I thought I've programmed in counters for all jamming Magecraft in the world, but it turned out there's still some I don't know. Plus, the Holy Grail might not just resort to Magecraft, but True Magic instead."

"Hm... are we sure this is the true chalice of Christ?" Shirou questions. "I know of several artifacts of great wish-granting power that have been mistaken as the Holy Grail."

"King Fisher's family has been guarding the true artifact for years. If you ask me, I've never personally witnessed it myself. The only one who had was..." Merlin clicks his tongue at the realization, shaking his head. "It's Lancelot du Lac."

"So Nimue did steal a march on us..." Shirou sighs.

He eyes Primate Murder carefully as it plays with Mordred, now beginning to jump all over the place and climbing onto people's heads, causing quite a considerable riot. Luckily, Altria has enough of the preparation, and loudly addresses the crowd on a makeshift podium.

"Men! Listen up!"

Amazingly, the disorderly crowd almost instantly form a perfect rank with a stomp on the ground. Primate Murder is equally shocked by the sudden change, and is flung upwards before managing to twist itself for a safe landing.

"Today will be a battle that will shape future's history, and a chance to engrave your name on a legend."

Despite the fiery words, Altria's voice is heavy and grave, not letting the crowd get too excited.

"It will be harsh and bloody. You all follow me today, but I cannot promise that you will return with me after this finishes. The goings will be tough, and yet I cannot reliably inform you of the challenges we will face. Yes, if you curse and berate me in your hearts, it may as well be true."

The soldiers' eyes glint with fighting spirit, completely unfazed by Altria's warning.

"However, I can promise you one thing: For any one of you who fell, will rise with me back in Avalon!"

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Their roar shakes the building, even surprising some of the early morning birds and causing them to fly in panic.

"Now, let us depart for victory and glory!"

Belying their earlier tidy form, the mass rushes out of the main gates, unflinching even when faced with the risk of death.

* * *

Compared to the British way of castle design, owing to the warmer Mediterranean climate, the Roman Empire's main palace is considerably more open. Despite its apparent weakness to enemy ambush, unlike Camelot, the palace is created deep within layer upon layer of a series of fortified bases outside the capital city in concentric circles. Therefore, for an enemy to strike deep directly to the palace, they have to destroy the Roman lines completely, from coast to coast, before the line can collapse and devour said enemy.

Of course, that only counts if the enemy the Romans are facing is human.

As the warm sun of the afternoon bathes the main court, the expensive imported marbles glitter among the gaps between the pillars. The white reflected light fills the room, despite the low angle of the sun, providing excellent lighting across the room. In fact, the open walls and ceiling is created specifically so that the supreme ruler of the Roman Empire can appreciate the glory of nature, being bathed under the sky and watched from above by the gods.

At least, that's the romantic intention of the building design, still carrying major design elements from the previously dominant Greek culture. A powerful weather-preventing barrier encases the building in a thin film, keeping out the cold rain, wind, and snow, as well as excessive heat during several outbreaks of dry seasons.

However, the beautifully pristine white marbles, partly also ransacked from various territories Anastasius has conquered, is now dyed red by his own blood, along with his entire family.

"How boring."

The soothing, bell-like voice comes out of the tender lips of a pale-skinned and pale-haired young woman, an incisor peeking out from one side of them. Her golden eyes with slitted pupils look on, clearly bored and lacking energy, even after sucking out the life force of the entire royal Roman family.

Her companion, a blue-haired androgynous humanoid, smiles at her temperament.

"Now, now, Shalltear, don't be like that. Don't their frozen expressions look hilarious?" Rimuru points out at the severed head being cradled on the vampire's lap. "That said, their intentions do deserve such disdain. Idiots."

The slime mutters the last word, a sting audible in their tone. Despite their enchanting face rivaling that of Shalltear's, their teal-colored hair bristles with anger and disgust.

Flicking her nails into Anastasius's cold head, ripping out a piece of scalp in the process, Shalltear inquires to no one in particular, "Where's the elf and the dog? Aren't they supposed to be with us?"

Rimuru shrugs. "Maybe something else caught their interest."

"Tch, what are we, chopped liver? No notice at all like that?" The vampire clicks her tongue.

"Against Nimue, prudent of information is important, I say," Rimuru patiently rebukes. "Who knows which wall she has eyes and ears in."

Their words are evidently displayed by the reason of the two's slaughter. The Romans are not only planning on taking over the entire continent of Europe, British Isles included, but also to push on eastwards against Attila the Hun. Against _that_ monster, Anastasius has resorted to means that can not only tip the balance between dimensions, but also obliterate chunks of them.

That will happen if he succeeds in harnessing the artifact he procured from Attila's homeland, smuggled through the southern seas to his domain. Both Rimuru and Shalltear aren't clear on that _thing's_ origins, but _it_ definitely isn't from this World. The potential danger of such power already cannot be overlooked, much less if a person decided to use it for nefarious means.

Rimuru sweeps his gaze outwards, squinting slightly against the sun, trying to find anything they miss among the piles of bodies they created on their way here. It's fortunate they managed to calm Shalltear down to prevent her from razing the entire complex to the ground and try to minimize any marks they might've caused, because the artifact might be hidden or destroyed forever if they're careless.

Sighing, Shalltear tosses the head of the Roman Emperor... er, _former_ Emperor, that is, to one side, patting down her delicate skirt unnecessarily since she possesses magic to prevent blood, fat, grime, and dust from sticking and ruining her pristine appearance. Gathering mana, she waves both arms and summons several foot-length lampreys.

"I'll scan the underground. You take the skies."

Rimuru nods, and effortlessly sprouts their draconic wings and floats to the sky.

The lampreys scurry along the ground, but not before inhaling the remaining bodies as energy. Despite their small size, their circular mouths full of deadly fangs quickly process the dead meat and cut them into chunks, then cleanly sucking everything into their seemingly bottomless stomach. The white marbles once again regain their white beauty, not even stained by the usual brown spots where the blood has pooled.

Like dogs, their disgusting round mouths open and close as if they're sniffing around. With no apparent nostrils or eyes, their senses are all concentrated to their tastebuds, similar to snakes slitting out their tongues intermittently, as well as their skin which are very sensitive to tremors from the ground. Only their hideous appearance prevents early humans to domesticate them as pets, but Shalltear finds them cute.

[Anything yet?] Rimuru's voice chirps in Shalltear's head.

She twitches her eyebrows in irritation. [What have I told you about setting a telepathic link without my consent? Fool!]

[Yeah, yeah,] Rimuru shrugs. [So, anything interesting?]

[Tsk! Nothing yet!]

Humming, the slime chips in with an idea. [There's nothing apparent from up here, apart from some pretty _interesting_ building patterns in the capital. A magic formation, I assume.]

[Ha! Does that idiot think he can harness an otherworldly power with just this paltry city?!] Shalltear arrogantly speaks, folding her arms together. [He'd need to sacrifice half of his citizens across the kingdom...!]

Both of them fall silent at her words.

[Sick bastard.] Rimuru's gritted teeth crackles across the telepathic link.

Solemnly, Shalltear adds, [I agree.]

Suddenly, she pops her fist into her palm, saying, [Come to think of it, should the citizens show their gratitude to me by coronating me as their supreme ruler? Fufufu, it'd be great if they can bow down and lick my toes!]

[Oi, where's my part? Give me half of it.]

[Why are you so interested in ruling humans anyway? Isn't your Monster Country forbidden to humans?]

[To humans who _trespass_ , yes, but I never banned them from entering,] Rimuru corrects. [You should know I was a former human as well.]

They go quiet this time, a gesture Shalltear copies. They carefully scan the city, circling slowly in the sky. Normally, a city's anti-air defenses would've pelted them with spells and flaming stones, but they've already taken care of it. Most of the citizens have been put into deep slumber by Shalltear's wide-area magic while Rimuru stealthily slaughters the corrupt officials as judged by one of their Noble Phantasms, Ciel.

The cityscape under their gaze spiral outwards with the palace slightly off-center... or is it? There's some magic rituals using two cores instead of one, such as the sun-moon ritual popular in the east, with one major and one minor, dominating and supporting at the same time. Indeed, the main palace is slightly to the right of the smaller harem, placing the pair precisely in the middle of the formation.

The roads spread out tidily, as expected from the infamous Roman discipline, but it's the waterways that caught Rimuru's attention. They're arranged in perfectly circular patterns, each one larger than the one before, creating ten systematic concentric circles to indicate a ten-step magic ritual.

' _Now, just have to find the focal elements...'_

The next part is quite hard, since each circle seems to dedicate different systems and focal points than the next. Some use watch towers integrated with noble houses, the others public bathhouses where leylines can easily leak out of the ground, and so on. They even found one which use prostitution houses as well as their supporting industries, like clothing stores and perfumeries.

A pattern this intricate would normally be adequate to execute a World-altering spell, of course with the addition of a number of sacrifices. However, if what Rimuru heard of Attila is correct, this won't even be remotely enough to harness the power of aliens, possibly coming from other TYPEs of different planetary bodies.

A complex magic circle is all well and good, but it won't work without a power source and a manager conducting the spell.

[Find anything yet, Shalltear?]

[Almost. It seems there's several caverns underground that hold promise. If you don't see anything important anymore from up there, come down here.]

[Sure thing.]

They make two further tours around the area before descending back to the main palace.

There, a giant hole has been punched into the ground where the large communal table was previously located.

"Did you always do things with your fist?" Rimuru sighs, rubbing the bridge of their nose. "Remember what I said earlier?"

"Well, it's not my fault!" Shalltear protests. "It's this stupid defensive mechanism that's too strong! If it was simpler, then I didn't have to resort to violence, did I?!"

' _Isn't that just an muscleheaded idiot's excuse...?'_

"You've just thought of something rude, haven't you?!"

Rimuru jumps into the hole without answering, leaving the flustered Shalltear behind.

They rely on their incredible array of defensive resistance to face any traps, and thus the slime bravely walks forward without care. Even if one did get past their defense, their body is immortal anyway. Because the cavernous web is man-made, they have nothing to fear against. If the alien artifact created this, then it's another story, but Rimuru only wants to finish this up early.

They don't let it show, but they too are irritated after being left in the dark by Komamura and Cheryl. This time, Sumiko didn't participate since she couldn't leave her domain, so she was left in charge of their respective domains. If this was a convoluted political story, then Rimuru would be worried Sumiko would've taken over their territories in an amazing coup, but she's not that type of person.

What could they be doing right now that's more important than this? Are they investigating Attila's stance of whether she'd throw her dice in this battle as well? Or did they find another lead that can cripple Nimue instantly, more than the Romans' secret alien weapon?

Not even 'Ciel' could give Rimuru an answer they desire.

The pitter-patter of high-heeled shoes arrives, indicating Shalltear has caught up with them.

"Hey, what should we do if the path branches out suddenly?" Shalltear asks, "My lampreys can't map the caverns' intricacies, despite their sensitivity. Do you have a skill to do that?"

Nodding, Rimuru replies, "I do, but it's quite flashy and isn't too effective underground. If this place has an automatic countering mechanism, or if the alien artifact reacts strangely when accidentally bathed with my mana, it'd be troublesome."

"Hmm... So, going back to my previous question, do we split up? Or use familiars instead?"

"Familiars," Rimuru decides. "Even better: let's use them to map out the places your lampreys can't while we wait at each crossroads."

"Agreed."

From Rimuru's shadows, several gigantic wolves appear and shoot out in front of them, followed by eagle-sized bats from Shalltear's Magecraft. Even in the cramped space, their movements are perfectly silent, perfect as scouts. Rimuru and Shalltear then can leisurely explore the space, looking for any clues that may be useable.

After an hour or so, a reaction from all of their familiars causes them to rush forward at the indicated direction.

Both of them have seen incredible things during their lifetime, but in this case, even they can't keep their jaws from slackening open in awe.

"Holy shit."

"Is that a new curse word that's trending?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"Then I'll use it next time."

Their chatter bounces cleanly off Vimana's hull, its golden gleam bathing the large hall-like space liberally.

* * *

 **Character Sheet Update!**

 **Rimuru Tempest**

 **Title: Great Demon Lord**  
 **Predicted Class: Caster, Berserker, Foreigner**  
 **Gender: ?**  
 **Height: 45 cm (slime form); 140 cm (human form)**  
 **Weight: 3 kg (slime form); 40 kg (human form)**

 **Alignment: Chaotic Good**

 **Strength: B**  
 **Endurance: EX**  
 **Agility: A**  
 **Mana: EX**  
 **Luck: B+**  
 **Noble Phantasm: A++**

 **Class/Personal Skills:**

 **Existence Outside the Domain: EX**  
As a reincarnator or Traveler, Rimuru is able to not be affected by local laws governing reality. In this case, Gaia has little or no influence on them or those inside their domain, allowing them to seemingly grow into absurd levels of strength. It is a skill of an archetypal [Protagonist]. This skill dulls the mental impact of Mad Enhancement greatly.

 **Mad Enhancement: A**  
A Class Skill Rimuru rarely uses, because it clashes with their actual personality. It's a skill gained during their first ascension as a Demon Lord. When active, all of Rimuru's parameters receive a Rank-Up, but their sanity remains at the cost of reduced dexterity with magic.

 **Animal Dialogue (Mystical): B**  
Rimuru can converse naturally with beasts and monsters due to their own constitution. Speaking with normal animals from the Outer World is more difficult.

 **Demon King: A**  
In life, Rimuru is feared by humans as the ultimate Demon Lord, who has conquered the others and created the strongest monster country. Only a select few individuals were aware of their true nature as a kind person and a great, just ruler. Also, being a slime, they're able to alter their appearance however they like, although they prefer either a globular slime form or an androgynous pre-teen form.

 **God Slayer: EX**  
As a Demon Lord, Rimuru is a notorious hunter of beings from a higher magnitude or realm of existence. The number of Divine Spirits they killed and devoured are countless, each increasing their might even more. This skill allows them to continuously and easily deal critical damage to any being with a [Divine] attribute.

 **Mana Tuning: A**  
Through demonic contracts of servitude, Rimuru is able to regulate their mana and those of their subordinates' in tune with each other, either increasing said subordinates' might or concentrating the scattered energy into Rimuru himself.

 **Self-Evolution + Self-Modification: - (EX)**  
Skills synthesized from Rimuru's trait (of being a slime) and Existence Outside the Domain. It allows Rimuru to improve dramatically just from self-reflection depending on the situation, and assimilate the powers of those they devoured into their own, assuming they're compatible. It eventually evolved into their Noble Phantasm, thus this skill is no appropriate to be categorized as such.

 **Noble Phantasm**

 **Manas Ciel: God's Wisdom Core**  
 **Rank: EX**  
 **Type: Support**  
 **Range: 0**  
 **Max. Targets: 1**

A synthetic Noble Phantasm, accumulated from the various skills Rimuru acquired in life. An intelligent computer residing inside Rimuru's soul, 'she' is able to calculate and predict future possibilities with great speed and precision. As a Noble Phantasm, it can approximate various skills it was born from, such as thought acceleration, parallel processing, fusion and separation, instant chanting, comprehension, and ability assimilation, along with skill synthesis and promotion.

It was born when Rimuru whimsically granted a female name to this Noble Phantasm, initially named 'Raphael' by the Voice of the World. Slowly, 'she' gathered emotional intelligence, and gained great affection and loyalty towards 'her' master.

 **Void God Azatoth: Ruler of the Outer Gods**  
 **Rank: EX**  
 **Type: Support, Anti-Life**  
 **Range: 50**  
 **Max. Targets: 10**

The ultimate representation of Rimuru's existence as a slime. Originally a monster of extreme omnivorous tendencies, their ability and appetite for prey and skills are otherworldly. This Noble Phantasm, once purified and synthesized to this point, is able to devour everything, even the target's soul. Other than its predation ability, one other characteristic of a slime is its ability to store objects bigger than itself inside its body without an increase in weight or decrease in mobility. This is achieved through rudimentary mastery of space and dimensional magic. Naturally, Azatoth's version is much stronger, and able to isolate any and all targets, as well as accumulate stored energy for an explosive release.

Its other abilities are crafted after devouring two dragons of Divine Beast-rank, which is spatial and time manipulation. It allows Rimuru to teleport and stop time to within one-millionth of its normal flow, however, when this ability is active, Rimuru can't cause any physical effects. A projection of dimensional gaps as a barrier, or creating a true clone by manipulating reality are also possible.

 **Harvest Lord Shub-Niggurath: Lord of the Wood**  
 **Rank: EX**  
 **Type: Support**  
 **Range: ∞**  
 **Max. Targets: ∞**

The ultimate representation of Rimuru's existence as a ruler. After gaining conscience as a reincarnator, they sought to create a place where beings like them, ostracized and hunted, could live freely and happily. This Noble Phantasm has several attributes similar to Charisma, and its main ability is to process various raw skills into new, stronger ones, as well as transfer them to those Rimuru trusts. It's the so-called 'cheat' ability, allowing Rimuru to use any skill they acquired perfectly without much training.

Through this Noble Phantasm and Ciel, Rimuru is also able to monitor their subordinates' general situation, as well as resurrect them from death as long as Rimuru has enough energy without any additional penalty. Stronger members of their kingdom are able to converse telepathically with Rimuru, along with the ability to sense Rimuru's hidden intentions through vague connections.


	40. Sneaking Stealthily or Not

**Hey, guys! It's actually been just a short while, isn't it? Aren't I a good boy?**

 **There's a correction to the previous chapter, where I mistakenly missed putting the class 'Foreigner' alongside Rimuru, which fits them better. Also, to be honest, I don't really like the way the 'baby proposal' was written, but that's the best I could do. I'm glad most of you liked it! Phew! Once again, if there's any term which feels unfamiliar to you, do holler at me and I'll do my best to either include it in future Glossary or Character Updates, or explain it here in my Author's Note.**

 **Now that we're reaching the final 20 chapters (excluding epilogues), do enjoy torturing yourselves on what project I'm working next! I'm also open to suggestion, like what my previous Author's Notes mentioned, so write down your ideas (remember, logical ones) in the review/comment section. I already have 3-4 epilogue chapters lined up, partly to connect this story to the next one, and partly to give you all a good ending. I hope you will stay with me until the very end.**

 **Mailbag time! Once again, thank you for the praises. You all made my day, even if I can't reply to all of your reviews in this section. Keep the likes rolling!**

 **Heaven's Thesis: Thank you, thank you very much. Yes, I'm a Dark Souls fan, and a fan on their way of storytelling. I realize it's impossible to have a fanfiction written that way, so I'm doing my best to blend in as much of Miyazaki-san's style into the Glossary or Character Updates. Don't worry; I have a Dark Souls project in the works, but that's quite far away. If you can't wait that long, check out the story I'm beta-ing with SquareBlock: Fortune's Disfavored. Leave a shout-out for me when you do so he can see it!**

 **Giuseppe: Rimuru is the MC of the LN 'Tensei Shitara Slime Datta Ken'. Their (because Rimuru's near-genderless in the canon storyline) power, when transposed into the Nasuverse, did fall into the 'Foreigner' class, which is based on Lovecraftian beings. Regarding Altera... well, just wait for it! Thanks for asking, btw.**

 **Now, read, enjoy, and review (in any order is good)! Follow and favorite, too, for the new guys! Cheers!**

* * *

Overall, Filvis and co.'s progress through the makeshift dungeon is smooth. They have to be faster than they would've liked because of Galahad's interference, but none of the existing traps and obstacles manage to slow them down. Yet.

"Sister, I've been thinking..." Cecilia says slowly.

Filvis looks slightly to her left at her sister, asking, "What is it?"

"What's that boy doing by chasing us so desperately? Of course, I'm not talking about whether who sent him, but his face... Have you seen it?" Cecilia observes her half-sister's face, looking for any shred of sympathy. "That's not the face of someone following a superior's orders. It's more... personal."

Gareth interjects, "Or he could've been brainwashed. Same thing."

"Have you ever had a silent conversation against your opponent with your weapons and fists, Lady Gareth? How you can seemingly talk heart-to-heart with them when you're fighting?" Cecilia inquires, receiving a nod from Gareth. "I fought against him, and there wasn't a single second I was fighting a mind-controlled beast. That boy is pure... _too_ pure, perhaps, but he is his own person."

"Don't get distracted, Cecilia," Filvis warns. "It's a good thought, but that's not what's important right now. If we see him again, then we'll cross that bridge."

"Yes, sister."

However, the three of them instantly skid to a halt as a creature wades into view.

"Whoa..."

Gareth's whispered surprise echoes clearly across the suddenly enlarging chasm, revealing... the skeleton of a dragon.

Its skull, resting down, is already triple the height of Gareth, the tallest one there. With teeth the length of their legs and eye sockets large enough for any one of them to stand inside, it cuts a very impressive figure. The dim lighting contributes heavily to its unseen body, but scaling up from the size of its head, Filvis can only gulp in nervousness of the full size of this dragon.

\- Creak.

Then, it _moves_.

Immediately, the three of them jump back with all their strength and unsheathes their blades in one smooth motion.

\- Creak. Creak. Creak.

Slowly but surely, it stirs, bony shoulders jutting out in the air as it straightens its front legs... front arms?

"C-C-C-Ce-Cecilia! G-G-G-Get behind me!" Chattering her teeth, Filvis moves in front to cover her sister, not realizing she's actually physically weaker than her younger sibling. "I-I-I-I'll t-t-t-ake its attention!"

However, contrary to Filvis's frightened expression and Gareth's alarm, Cecilia's face is strangely calm, with only a dash of curiosity gracing her eyes.

"Sister, you're shivering."

"G-G-G-Get away! Don't c-c-come closer!" Filvis frantically waves her rapier around, not even using mana due to her panic. In front of the skeleton dragon, it may as well be an inadequate size for a toothpick.

Even though the dragon has no flesh, Cecilia feels she can sense its confusion of this 'little being' waving around a 'stick'.

"Sister!"

"NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOO! CECILIA! RUN AWAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY!"

\- BAM!

Rather crudely, she hits her sister right at the base of her neck, knocking her unconscious.

"Cecilia!" Alarmed, Gareth shouts at her. "What the hell are you doi-"

She shuts her mouth the moment Cecilia urgently presses a finger to her own lips, signalling silence is now paramount. The younger blonde shifts her eyes to one side, pointing quietly at the dragon, and sheathes her sword back, followed by Gareth.

Bowing so deeply she may as well been prostrating, Cecilia humbly says, "Our apologies for the intrusion, o great dragon. Please, point us to a direction to our goal, so that we may leave as soon as possible."

\- Creak. Creak. Creak.

The gigantic body groans in protest as it moves, shedding dust and grime along the way. It rests its snout right in front of the still-bowing Cecilia, ignoring the shivering Gareth with a wet crotch, nudging her blonde top. Cecilia, despite her calm attitude, is now clenching her fist so heavily they're bleeding.

[You smell familiar, girl.]

The pair twitches in surprise when they hear an ancient, heavy voice echoing inside their skull. Despite its age, the voice has the undertone of a man in his prime.

[Hmm... let me remember... Do you know of anyone called Mordred?]

"Ah!" Cecilia gasps in surprise. "She... is my master, o great dragon."

Her reply is followed by a shred of silence, before the dragon speaks again into their mind, still nudging Cecilia's head this way and that like playing with a ball.

[I see. I am Pæga.]

Gareth subtly nudges Cecilia in her side, sending her a silent question regarding the dragon's identity, seeing that a flash of recognition appeared in her eyes a moment ago.

Whispering in awe, Cecilia explains, "Pæga... Master's great-grandfather?" Realizing the dragon's royal lineage, she hurriedly kneels, "I pay my respects to His Highness!"

Shocked at the revelation, Gareth follows suit.

The dragons snorts somehow, despite having no throat or lungs to operate with, through his nostrils twice the size of Cecilia's head.

[Pleasantries.]

Noticing the annoyed tone, Cecilia pulls Gareth off the floor and stands up mightily, now challenging the dragon's gaze with her own.

"Your Highness, may I know the answer to our previous request?"

[Ha! Straight to the point, aren't you?!] Pæga opens his gigantic maw, as if preparing to swallow Cecilia whole, a fact that weakened Gareth's knees sufficiently enough to make her kneel again into the puddle of her own excretions. [Hmph! It's not as if I didn't respect such behavior... How similar you are to Mordred.]

"I do not expect such a mighty dragon to degrade to digressing from a question."

At this point, Gareth looks ready to join Filvis in the realm of unconsciousness.

[Hahaha! Truly her student, indeed!] Pæga guffaws, opening and closing the bare bones which makes up his jaws. [Say, little girl...]

\- BANG!

Pæga's skull snaps upwards as Cecilia uppercuts him with the sheath of her sword, using it like a blunt hammer.

"Aaahhh... Brother... I'm going ahead to meet Mother and Father..." Gareth whimpers to no one in particular, her eyes growing into a pair of comical white discs.

Sternly glaring at Pæga, Cecilia bluntly says, "Unfortunately, we do not have the time to... how did you say it, Your Highness? 'Pleasantries'? We will go through, whether you decide to block us or not, or die trying." Fighting spirit pours out from every pore of her skin, the meager amount of magic energy she has coating her body like a glowing transparent armor. "The kingdom is at stake, and I could care less of your desires."

[That hurts...] Pæga growls, and Gareth faints instantly.

Finally, he decides to stretch his entire body, standing up over the three girls, his towering figure covering Cecilia's entire sight. A menacing light appears in his empty eye sockets as each joint tightens and creaks against each other.

His giant maw opens.

Cecilia doesn't dare to close her eyes like a little girl waiting to be hit. She's a warrior, first and foremost, and she'll look at her murderer right in the eyes while fighting, not standing still. Still, her fists are still clenched bone white, unable to open to grab her sword out of her sheath.

' _What is this? What is this pressure?'_ She thinks hard.

It's suffocating. Every fiber in her body feels squashed. She can't breathe. Her heart pounds so hard against her rib cage it feels like a sledgehammer. Her eyes hurt. Her lungs burn inhaling the air emitted by this dragon. What to do? Escape? Run? Die? Fight? Live? Protect them. Protect her sister. Protect Gareth. Save herself. Prostate? Apologize? Beg? Would it make a difference? Kill him. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.

\- Poke.

Pæga flicks the tip of his bony finger against Cecilia's head, sending her flying backwards.

[Just go straight from here, you bunch of impatient brats.] He growls like the majestic beast he is, but his tone contains no malice. [Seriously, kids these days... No respect for their elders at all. At all!]

"Guh..." Cecilia groans, rubbing her forehead, red and swollen. "W-What? D-Did you just... ugh... l-let us go? Just like that?"

[Of course. Why should I bother? I'm here because of an accident, not because of some curse or anything. I have no obligation to block the three of you.] The skeleton dragon suddenly cackles, his teeth knocking against other to create a series of hollow knocks. [Wait... Kufu... HAHAHAHAHAHAAA! Did all of you... bufu... think I was going to kill you? You, who are all so tiny like maggots? BAH! Not worth my time at all! GAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!]

Cecilia sits there, dumbfounded, just watching on the zombie dragon laughing its missing guts out.

[Isn't that right, _boy_?]

She whips her head around, only to find Galahad staring straight at her from near the entrance. With the grace of a well-trained warrior, she unsheathes her sword and palms her pendulum in each of her hand, her composure returning to combat mode in a split second. Likewise, Galahad has already prepared his shield, glowing light blue with his characteristic magic energy, eager to continue their battle.

 **[There will be no violence here, the two of you!]**

Pæga's booming voice stuns both of them into stillness.

[From here, you will trod upon sacred ground. Show it respect, or it won't reply in kind.] The dragon lazily returns to his first resting position, and even without his eyelids existing, both Cecilia and Galahad can picture his eyes closing to sleep. [Now begone. Before I changed my mind. Geez... I thought this would be a good resting place... How noisy!]

Cecilia carefully eyes the young boy, before moving to collect Gareth and Filvis. Wincing at the odor of Gareth's wet pants, in an impressive display of strength, she hauls both of them onto her shoulder. Galahad simply walks casually pass her towards the door Pæga is guarding while conscious not to show his back towards the girl.

His body is still aching from the beating the three girls gave him earlier. While understandable, and they had no malicious intent against him personally, it was enough to rile his normally calm and unemotional nature, leaving him seething because their antics left him with little time to meet his mother. Surely, as emissaries of the great King Arthur, they would show some chivalry to the orphaned him?

However, seeing Pæga right here shocked him massively. Nimue has equipped him with various knowledge of beings he needed to avoid to ensure survival – both to himself and her plans – and a dragon was clearly one of them. As one of the members of the first races, they grew more powerful with age, with only death could seemingly halt their growth.

But this dragon... is _undead_.

How can this be possible? Didn't he sacrifice himself to empower Her Highness Princess Mordred, or so he was told? Or did some aberration occur? It must be, because to change a being's status and origin... from [Dragon King] to [Undead Dragon King] is nigh impossible, especially because of its massive power. If it was a lower being, the chance would be higher...

' _Ugh... my head hurts...'_ Galahad squints at the amount of theories popping out in his head. _'No, focus on meeting Mother. Here I come... Don't show your back to these girls...'_

He scans the unconscious form of the two girls saddled across Cecilia's shoulders. It's no wonder they fainted; even he feels his mind about to lose itself just by standing near the majesty of Pæga, its bones pouring out gravity itself. He's thankful Pæga has no way of knowing Galahad's been addressing the dragon as 'it' in his mind, or he'll soon be a paste on the ground, as colorless as his life has been so far.

He understands how little he 'weighs' compared to Pæga in terms of the World. A legendary being's Conceptual Weight clearly outclasses a mere homunculus like him, enough for a normal doll to lose its life just by being near. Perhaps it's his mother's blessing, connected through the Holy Grail, that's been protecting him? He realized this thought is idealistic and happy-go-lucky at best, but he keeps it firmly in his mind to enlighten his steps.

A grunt from behind him clues him to Cecilia's presence, having caught up to him. He is purposefully walking slowly so as not to leave Cecilia behind, firstly to keep an eye on her, and secondly to that he won't become a guinea pig to whatever's ahead. If they fall for a trap, then they'll fall together. Plus, what can a person who has her two hands occupied do to him?

The grand door opens, much bigger at this distance then when he entered.

\- Come, my child.

And now that damned Grail is mimicking his mother's voice.

Unintentionally, his magic energy leaks out along with his rage, causing Cecilia to shift in alarm.

"I apologize for that. I was reminded of something unpleasant," Galahad cooly bows his head lightly, much to the surprise of the blonde girl. "The Grail... has my mother. I shall not be stopped in meeting her."

After several more quiet moments interspersed with their steps, Cecilia speaks, "I see. It seems we may have gotten into a misunderstanding. Because we have never been properly introduced, I am Cecilia. These are my comrades: my sister Filvis and Lady Gareth from the Round Table."

Now, it's Galahad's turn to be amused by her politeness.

"I am Galahad, son of Sir Lancelot and Lady Elaine."

A short gasp punctuates his explanation, but he continues to say, "I understand we may have not meet in the best of circumstances... Ah, I also need to apologize for injuring you back then."

Still flabbergasted at the revelation, Cecilia replies, "E-Er, yes. No, it's not that big of an injury..."

"I'm grateful," he calmly smiles, a genuine sense of relief showing on his face. "However, back then wasn't a misunderstanding, merely fate pitching us together. I may apologize, but regret is the one thing I will not admit."

Cecilia silently nods.

Unbeknownst to him, both Filvis and Gareth have regained consciousness around the gap of their conversation. Cecilia has received their signal via finger taps, both of them ready to spring out in case the boy tries something. However, they, too, are astounded by the boy's serene demeanor and knightly behavior, as well as the knowledge of his pedigree.

' _ **This**_ _is Sir Lancelot's son?! U-Unbelievable!'_ Gareth, with her admiration of Lancelot, screams in her mind.

' _Tsk... How can I eliminate him now? He's been sending Cecilia strange looks... And stop giving him hope, dear sister...!'_ Completely thinking of a different topic than Gareth, Filvis, too, is fuming. _'Although... If we reveal his heritage to His Majesty... This boy could be rich! Now that's what I call a secure future!'_

"Why are you doing this? Your mother... is she being held captive? To subjugate you?" Cecilia questions. "We will help. There is no need for us to fight anymore."

Galahad merely smiles softly, lightly turning his face towards Cecilia behind him.

"Even if you do, what about my father? He... is beyond salvation. I have to be by his side... and opposite to you."

Cecilia's voice turns grave. "'Beyond salvation'? Has Sir Lancelot... passed?"

"His mind has," Galahad admits. "Lady Nimue's power is powerful, but not perfect. Father received the strength he craved to attain the woman he loved. Alas, she was not my mother, but Her Majesty has been kind to me. His armor is-"

"Waitwaitwaitwait! Who do you mean by 'Her Majesty'?!" Cecilia can't help but interrupt, gunning her words out faster than her lips can pronounce them.

"Hm? Her Majesty Guinevere, of course. Or has His Majesty remarried?"

The girl can't help but only sigh at the boy's nonchalant attitude. Has he been living under a rock all this time? Judging by the difficulty they had in tracking him, it's a distinct possibility, but still... Did he not realize the uproar happening in Camelot when Guinevere went missing?!

"So, as I was saying, Father is now completely in Lady Nimue's grasp. Perhaps you think I should've hated her – and maybe I should – but without her I would not be alive right now. My mother... met Father in an adulterous fashion; I was a bastard child, you see. For bringing me to life and preventing my death before I can see the world... Even if it takes my life, I shall fight for this woman."

Watching Galahad's resolute eyes, a newfound tension arrives in the air around them.

"I see. I, too, has no real family when I was little, thus I understand your predicament, however slightly." Cecilia returns his fiery gaze with her own, saying, "It's such a shame we cannot reconcile our differences. You will make a fine knight and ally."

Galahad shrugs.

"In any case, I was here of my own accord. This thing... the accursed Holy Grail has been calling me, baiting my mother's life in front of my eyes. Calling me in my sleep, haunting me when I was awake; even now, I am filled with the desire to destroy it. There's a part of it inside me, which was how it could communicate with me, but... Miss Cecilia, will you hear me out?"

As his tone changes from resolute to desperate, Cecilia perks up her ears, as do Gareth and Filvis, still silently listening.

"If destroying the Holy Grail kills me... Please save my father."

"Why would you like to destroy the Grail? If its wish-granting abilities are true, then shouldn't you prioritize securing it to save your father? Perhaps wish for a better life?"

Galahad makes a bitter expression, replying, "A thing which makes my mother and me like this is no wish-granter. More likely, any wish you request of it will be perverted and twisted into a dark revelation. That is merely my instinct telling me not to trust it, but you all do not have my amount of understanding of itself."

"I see." Cecilia mutters, more to Filvis and Gareth than to Galahad. "We are here to secure it, initially, but if what you say is true... then I shall cooperate in its destruction."

' _Ceciliaaaaaa! What are you saying?!'_ Filvis shouts at her sister's naiveté internally.

' _No! Our mission is the Holy Grail! To betray it would be betraying the king!'_ Gareth also disagrees with her mind, promising that she'll berate the younger girl when the opportunity arises.

"Thank you, Miss Cecilia," Galahad sweetly smiles in a manner that may make most girls swoon, bar this girl who only has eyes for her master. "If your hand is free, I may attempt a knightly behavior and kiss its back."

"Hmph! If my hand is free, then I'll bop you in the head. A boy like you shouldn't imitate bad adults!"

"Hmm... I shall take that into consideration. But, truly, is doing that such a bad thing?" Galahad innocently inquires.

Cecilia growls in irritation, several bad memories with men surfacing in her mind. "I've lost count of the scumbags I beat up who used that line before they attempted to soil me. In the past, it's a mark of a true gentlemen, but atrocious people have taken advantage of it and mars its meaning."

"Um!" Galahad enthusiastically nods, happy to learn a new thing. "Then, shall we? According to the annoying static in my head, we are getting closer to the Holy Grail. See for yourself and decide."

"Agreed."

Both of them steps out into a vast room, the two unconscious ladies in tow, the light slightly blinding their eyes.

* * *

"Muu... why is this happening?!" Cheryl childishly whines to her companion beside her.

Komamura, to his credit, being much older and more experienced than her, manages to hold back a sigh and a wince. If Shalltear was here, the two ladies would undoubtedly go to war over the slightest friction. Again, despite his different facial structure, his voice and speech is remarkably human-like.

Eyeing the younger girl, he says, "Is the reaction getting stronger? Or did you lose the trace?"

"No, it's right here! Look!" Cheryl shoves the floating hologram over her palm to near his face, showing a pulsating dot near the center. "Pæga's definitely here! Let's hurry before he tears everything we've prepared down!"

"He's supposed to be dead a few years ago, no? If I recall, that Mordred girl inherited some of his qualities through our observation. Whether she robbed it from him with his life or he granted her with the expense of his life, it shouldn't matter now, no?" Komamura raises one of his bushy eyebrows, continuing, "Besides, judging from the location, it's most likely a part of his being guarding the Holy Grail. Maybe it's some sort of preventive measure against intruders or a trap, but you shouldn't worry about it too much."

"I should! One of my kinsmen is in there!" Cheryl protests. "Regarding the other two girls and one boy, meh... I don't really care, but we elves look out for each other. I thought you're supposed to be the paragon of that 'pack mentality'! Aren't you lot structured similar to real canines? Ah, no offense, of course."

The older man smiles, although his smile means a terrifying feral grin, despite his smiling eyes. Due to not being used to it like Shalltear, Cheryl involuntarily shivers. What if he decides to eat her?

"Don't fret. Shalltear has given me much abuse, but they are all in good spirits. If you spend more time with us, you can tell."

"Despite her murderous looks at you?"

"Ahaha! That's just her way to express her affection, young one." Komamura pats Cheryl's head, inadvertently using too much power and nearly squashing her neck into her chest. Smiling at her yelp, he says, "Again, you'll learn in time."

He straightens his burly frame, nearly triple Cheryl's height, to scan his surroundings. Or, more precisely, to look downwards towards the Corbenic castle-town from one of the few tall hills around it. _'There must be a path underground in the castle, or near it,'_ Komamura surmises in his mind. The source of Pæga's mana reaction points directly under them, which is currently grass and earth.

"Can you sense your elf-kin from here?"

"Uuu... Somewhat," Cheryl grumbles, combing her roughened hair. "Or, more accurately, I can feel her mana traces here, but the trail stops in that town. What are the chances she's here under the order of that draconic king for the Holy Grail?"

"'Draconic'? is that a derogatory sentiment?"

"Hm? No, just noting her heritage. The Pendragon family is descended from our old dear Pæga, right?"

"Yes, that is true," Komamura confirms. "Come to think of it, considering your age, you must've not had much time acquainting yourself with him. Were you two close?"

The elf, instead of answering, jumps forwards explosively towards one of the watch towers. Sighing at her petulance, the wolf-man follows with surprising agility, considering his large frame. Mid-air as they jump up unnoticed towards the top of the wall, she replies, "Ah, no. He's just an acquaintance, like you said. He's Gramps's old friend, so I was often forced to have tea with him, talking about boring things."

"Your life must be truly miserable," he drily comments.

"Ha! Is that sarcasm coming from you! I knew it!" Cheryl happily chirps, landing silently on the stone wall. "Ellis has been teaching me this stuff!" She proudly says, puffing out her meager chest.

Komamura stays silent, preferring to focus on the castle's architecture and possible weak points. Finding nothing of interest, he asks, "I think there's a path from that castle to under the place we were standing on. Can you track it?"

Cheryl spreads her fingers, summoning the holographic radar once again. This time, dotted lines form a rough path in two dimensions, glowing in the night air.

"Over there," she points out to where the throne room is roughly located. "Let's go."

* * *

\- Clack. Clack. Clack.

My body rocks back and forth as the supplies carriage stumbles on the uneven roads near the back of the army formation. Considering the current Britannia is a young country, the construction of a nation-wide road network is already impressive. Sadly, I've been to Rome where the roads aren't just impeccably maintained, they're also lined by rudimentary bricks, making a smooth ride. Granted, the sheer scale of such project will quickly drain a country's resources, but still... This is something that can be improved on.

Maybe I can be a Minister of Public Works by marrying Mordred? Now that's a thought. Or should I be a Minister of Food and Agriculture? That way, I can spend all my time in the kitchen...

The lull in my thoughts is still not enough to distract me from the details captured by my eyes, both from my real ones and my Pure Eyes. I have hoped to be able to forget my antics in the last few hours, when I embarrassingly seduced Mordred both on bed and in public, asking for a child like a sexual maniac. She doesn't mind, even now, but that's not really the point.

Did Alaya's words shake me up that badly? The shock that I have to leave behind descendants to ensure the continuity of the Heroic Vessel program is still running through my system. Despite being an artificial being with artificial emotion, the ones that developed are for a loving, caring man towards a single woman. And now I have to change again?

Is is that easy to change someone's heart? Sure, the phrase 'change of heart' does exist, but did Alaya plan to just rip out my current emotional generator and install a new one, just so it can fulfill its plans? Did it not care about Mordred at all? Well, I do, but the problem I have is that its suggestion doesn't even need me leaving her, or cheat on her.

I just have to convince her to accept a few more mistresses.

' _Wait...'_

Come to think of it, did Alaya insist on me to have more children and wives _now_?

"Ah..." i involuntarily let out a breath.

If so... If that's true, then I'd rather die first before betraying Mordred's heart right now. Yes, it's possible. If I sire enough children, then I can postpone on Alaya's insistence of more mates. I love Mordred, no matter how fake this emotion is, and I loath the thought of hurting her even more than I have so far.

Come to think of it, what kind of stupid things I've been thinking until now in the middle of a war?!

' _Focus... Focus...'_

I have surpassed far too arduous training to be so amateurishly absent-minded like this. Perhaps this is, finally, the one flaw of the Heroic Vessel program? Unlike the Counter Guardians, we all have emotions, allowed by Alaya to develop artificially at first and then blossom through our journey. By learning humanity from humanity's point of view, we hope to find their salvation without killing them. However, this is the first time when I feel my emotions aren't being productive.

I carefully observes my surroundings, sweeping and enjoying the veiw with my normal eyes. Maybe the newly-conscripted soldiers back at the castle will find this attitude arrogant, but I am truly trying to take my mind off the upcoming battle. Inherently, Heroic Vessels all have heightened senses, but sometimes it is too much whenever I need a quiet time.

Why am I at the back? Well, Altria planned to have me circle around when we're three-quarters into our journey to the back of Nimue's base in an attempt of a pincer movement. Mordred is, as usual, up front, where she can use her talents to the fullest, no doubt also bothered by what I did earlier.

First of all, why Londinium? Sure, it's situated near a leyline, and the fact it was a flourishing city before trade and culture moved away from it means it has all the basic construction needed for a Workshop. Other than the name, I find it hard to place a reason on why Nimue chose this particular place. Of course, it's London's precursor as the kingdom's capital, and some memories from a distant future make it interesting, but still...

An image of a busty Altria on a heavily-armored horse flashes through my mind, seen from EMIYA's viewpoint.

' _If Mordred can grow like that...'_

My human side starts to imagine indecent things, before it's automatically and annoyingly squashed by my inhuman side.

Mordred's body is stuck in her current appearance because her homunculus origin. Designed as the perfect warrior, her abilities far overwhelmed her initial body, damning her to a short life. I engineered an update into her body, letting her live as long as she wanted, perhaps matching this body of mine's age, but I was unable to allow her to develop and grow like a normal girl, which I knew was her dream.

However, with the assistance of Merlin, it's possible, even to the extent of artificially re-engineer her fertility which was left out from her original design. Unlike Altria, there's no Avalon preventing changes to her body, so in theory, it should be possible for us to have many, many children.

Do I deserve that life? I would've said no in the past, having resolved myself to forfeit such simple utopia in order to save people, knowing that I would be denied of this happiness forever. However, if I mention this to Mordred now, not only will I incur her wrath, I'll also be lying to myself if I say I don't want it.

Yes, I am now that much of a hypocrite. Is this because of my developing emotions? Does love truly can overcome all? Even my rational side is struggling to contain my desire to chase that simple dream of a family, and starting to deviate from my ideal to save everyone. Can I have both? Earning my happy ending and also saving everyone?

No, that's not even a question.

...I'll just have to do both.

Isn't this why I am given this power and freedom? No, perhaps my current power isn't enough, so I'll get stronger. It's as simple as that. Not just strength in combat, but also in politics, relationship, and many others I need to catch up on a normal human male's standard. I'll make Mordred happy, as happy as she can be, surpassing her initial delusions of a normal girl's happiness. Then, I can make myself happier by leeching off her happiness.

' _Wow, that's a lot of 'happy' in one sentence...'_

But first, I have to take care of this 'Nimue' problem first.

I close my eyes, preparing myself for the upcoming combat.

There's a high chance Londinium is already infested by traps, both physical and magical in nature. Nimue won't have any mercenaries fighting for her for the simple reason she'd just rather brainwash them, so perhaps there's already many inhuman soldiers patrolling the area. Orcs, gargoyles, goblins, ogres, and various chimeras are a staple, plus whatever monstrosities her host body Vivian can cook up, courtesy of Merlin's teachings.

Well, it won't matter in the end.

I'll just need to slaughter them all, save whoever I can save, and crush Nimue for good.

' _Full power, full throttle.'_

Against the late night wind, I mutter my personal phrase, coming straight from my heart.

"Trace, on..."

A soldier from the pack guarding the supply cargo piques up, casting a glance towards me.

"Pardon me, Sir Shirou, did you say something? Anything you need in particular?"

His tone is polite, as expected when addressing the kingdom's soon-to-be prince consort, but I wonder how will he treat me if I am still, politically, a commoner? Maybe still polite, but with a touch more arrogance? Or will he be a dick as is typical throughout many stories?

"No, it's just my ramblings. Please pay it no heed."

He nods and ignores my earlier words, just as I order.

I disappear into the dark night minutes later without any warning to my escorts.


End file.
